


Goat Rope

by AlwaysOrithia



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: A tinkerer of magic, Actual Smut, Also totally OP, And angst, Anders is a tinkerer, Anders thinks too much, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpan Fenris, Eventual Smut, Good Guy Anders, Grown ass adults, How does magic work?, Like watching a panda cam - they did it! They finally did it!!, M/M, Minor F!Hawke/Isabela, More battle strategy than anticipated too, Much Slower Burn Than Anticipated, Oh yeah - Explicit Language, Party banter turned novel, Probably don't start this one unless you're in for the long haul, This got away from me, eventual fenders, let there be fluff, whatevs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 159,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysOrithia/pseuds/AlwaysOrithia
Summary: The elf was not sufficiently impressed when Anders triumphantly handed him a faintly glowing vial of lyrium, but to be fair, Anders’ explanation had consisted of announcing “I did it!” and shoving the vial at him.“You did…lyrium?” Fenris asked with a cocked eyebrow. “Was it laced with something? A stimulant, perhaps?”___Fenris catches a curse, Anders plays at bodyguard (Aha! Role reversal!) and then both boys catch some feels. You know how it is.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Fenris/Anders
Comments: 448
Kudos: 166





	1. The Lay of the Land

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a fun little experiment with fanfiction. It got a little out of hand.
> 
> I try to be conscientious about TWs at the start of chapters that need them, and provide enough detail for you to make educated decisions. Let me know if I drop the ball anywhere. 
> 
> For those who came for the smut (hah): chapters 15, 21 so far. Will update.

**Noun**

**goat rope** ( _plural_ **goat ropes** )

  1. (slang) A confusing, disorganized situation often attributed to or marked by human error.
  2. (slang) A convoluted issue that is contested by many parties.
  3. A rodeo event in which competitors attempt to lasso a goat, usually for younger participants.



“Behind you – the corridor!” Anders shouted, indicating a general direction with a jerk of the chin, while his staff simultaneously arced to finish summoning a tempest.

He stood in the alcove of a large barred doorway on the east wall of the room, which gave him some cover from the teleporting Magister and conveniently offered a prime view of the single entry point. At the moment, said entry was funneling a motley stream of slavers and animate corpses into the small room deep within the belly of the holding caves.

They had left an ocean of slaver blood in their wake in the pursuit of Fenris’s hunters, but the den was riven with secret tunnels and locked doors; Maker knew how many reinforcements could arrive if they didn’t finish this fight quickly.

The hairs on Anders' neck and arms prickled as the tempest tore through the room, finishing off the last of the underwhelming army of shades. Storms always awoke something primal in him; with a small modification, he could compress the full force of that raging storm directly over the apprentice and end this battle before it started. It was no surprise the Circle did not address the manipulation or creation of spells; Anders himself could not decide if such unsanctioned experiments were his birthright or blind arrogance. Even before he felt the awesome power Justice could unleash, Anders had known why mages were feared.

 _Focus_ , he chastised, sending waves of healing and stamina toward Hawke and Fenris. The two warriors had positioned themselves to either side of the corridor and were greeting the wave of slavers in a pincer movement to devastating effect. He turned his gaze back to Hadriana just as her barrier faltered. A familiar movement behind the Magister caught his attention just as Isabela leapt from the shadows, perfectly timed to deliver a murderous backstab. Hadriana stumbled, looking down at herself with an expression of utter disbelief.

The remaining slavers were quickly dispatched by the tag-team warriors, and the remaining corpses collapsed like puppets dropped by bored children. Eerie silence replaced the adrenaline-fueled cacophony of moments before.

“As I suspected. Despite your abundance of hubris and megalomania, you were always weak, Hadriana.” Fenris’s voice was a low growl, but the fierce scowl and strained clip to his words belied his rage. He strode purposefully towards the gasping Magister, lifted her effortlessly with one hand, and threw her against the stone wall. He again closed the distance, raising his blade for the killing blow.

Anders, Hawke and Isabela remained at a discreet distance; none wanted to interfere with the former slave’s hard-won retribution.

“Stop! You do not want me dead,” Hadriana blurted. She propped herself up on one elbow, offering information on a supposed long-lost sister in exchange for her life. Anders rolled his eyes and stopped attending to her prevarications; it was obvious the woman was entirely focused on self-preservation and would say or do anything to stay her executioner’s hand.

Instead, Anders scrutinized her. Here was a scion of the supposed mage paradise that he had heard rumor of since his magic first manifested. Those cold, tortured blue eyes did not tell a story of magical solidarity and philanthropy; this woman did not look like the personification of whatever dreams were pinned on Tevinter by idealistic, dewy-eyed novices. Anders sighed. Perhaps she was an outlier, a rare malcontent, but it was certainly harder to dismiss Fenris’s stories after staring into the soulless eyes of Hadriana – and those of the ritual sacrifice they had passed on the way in.

The coughs and groans of the dying woman reached his ears, but he didn’t attend to the sounds until he registered the low, rhythmic murmuring. Powerful indeed - the fatally wounded mage was mustering her reserves for a final spell. What was she saying? A faint blue glow caught his eye.

“WAIT,” he cried, mind reeling, but Fenris had already ghosted. Hadriana gasped, then continued her incantation even with the elf’s forearm buried in her sternum. “A curse! Fenris, she’s casting a curse! Stop – we need to know what she just said!” Before he had even finished the warning, Fenris rematerialized, casually flinging his former tormentor off his fist.

With a final word and a chilling sneer, Hadriana fell limp to the tile floor.

Fenris stormed out without a second glance at the corpse. “We are done here.”

* * *

It was nearing dusk on the coast when the party of three exited the labyrinth of caves. Full dark had set in by the time they came across a hastily-erected campsite, with Fenris in situ on a fallen log by the fire. The weary band of misfits dropped their gear and huddled close to the fire, passing travel rations around in silence. 

Isabela, naturally, was the first to break the tense quiescence. The rogue propped a leg on the log and reached out to lightly clasp Fenris’s shoulder. “So, handsome, it seems that blue-eyed bitch left you with a farewell present.”

“It would not be the first curse Danarius’s pets have laid on me, and it likely will not be the last.” Fenris replied, his voice surprisingly serene despite the venom in his words.

Isabela sighed. “Well, I for one don’t care to see you trapped in a waking nightmare, or whatever other nasty surprises she had in store for you.” 

Anders took the opportunity Izzy had artfully arranged, turning his torso towards the pair. “Fenris, did you hear what she chanted? Even a few words would help.”

Without looking up from the fire, or the slightest change in his deadpan expression, Fenris’s voice turned flinty. “What does it matter, mage?”

“Well, for one thing, if you remember enough of the spell, I might be able to identify it. Once we know what we were dealing with here, I might be able to reverse it. Or, at least, perhaps we can sort of…I don’t know…plan around it.”

“What do you mean, ‘plan around it’?” Fenris growled.

“Well, Maker, I don’t know, do I? Most hexes and curses are meant to disable or create a vulnerability. It may be something we have to take into account…”

Fenris shot to his feet so suddenly that Isabela had to jump back to avoid the log that rolled out from beneath him. The elf fixed a murderous gaze on Anders and closed on him in moments. “Take into account? If you wish to know of any weaknesses I have, you might at least have the courage to not masquerade the request as a favor to me. And,” Fenris snarled, “do you really believe I am foolish enough to reveal the details of a _mage’s_ depravity to _another mage_? I would rather die than help another _M_ _agister_ with their education!”

Hawke circled the fire towards the feuding pair and held her hands out in a ‘take it easy’ gesture more suited to soothing a snappy mabari. “Hey now, take a breath you two. I know everyone is exhausted and a little raw right now, but we all agreed that camp is sanctuary. No murder allowed in camp. Besides, Fenris, he makes a good point; if you get incapacitated by the first arrow to the knee, we’ll all be in trouble. And if Anders can undo what that Void-gargling hag did to you, wouldn’t it be worth the risk?”

Fenris crossed his arms and glared at Anders, biting out a curt “No. It would not.” Without further explanation, the elf stormed to his tent, leaving a baffled Anders to stare after him.

“Maker. You’d think I was the one who cursed him. And then cursed his parents, grandparents, siblings, best friend, and little dog too,” Anders said with a sigh.

From seemingly nowhere, Isabela appeared by the mage’s side and gave him a gentle shoulder nudge. “If it helps, love, it’s not personal. If you beat a dog, eventually it stops wagging its tail at every visitor. Well, the smart ones do anyways.”

Anders slumped to the ground, crossing his legs and cradling his chin in his palms. “I know that. It’s just…well, it’s not like fear and hatred are new experiences for anyone with magic. I guess it’s just a lot easier to compartmentalize when mages are the oppressed party, resorting to violence as a desperate act. I can’t make sense of a world where _we’re_ the oppressors.” 

“Aww…my noble, naïve friend. It’s sweet that you think people can be one or the other.” Isabela lightly ruffled his hair, then turned and made her way over to Hawke, running her hands over the taught muscles of the warrior’s shoulders. “I think that’s enough feelings for one night. Today was a five-star shit parade, and I need a drink or a lay. So, unless you’re feeling frisky, then I suggest you get some rest.”


	2. Cursed

“What the hell happened?!” Hawke shouted.

“How should I know?! You two were right next to each other – you had the same barrier for Maker’s sake!” Anders shouted back, though his eyes never left his patient.

“Why isn’t he moving? Is he going to be alright?”

“I revived him, but he still has a lot of injuries. Look, Hawke, as helpful as you seem to think shouting is, I –” 

A cry from just around the nearby bend in the path interrupted Anders mid-sass. “Isabela! Go help her, I’ll deal with Fenris!”

Anders pretended to ignore the moment of hesitation before Hawke finally turned and sprinted toward the distress call. It stung to realize that her trust in him had limits. Regardless, he would do his damnedest for Fenris, bigot or not. He closed his eyes and welcomed the guidance of his spirit ally, directing concentrated waves of healing magic towards the swollen bruises that belied massive internal bleeding beneath. In short order, successful deep tissue repair gave way to tending more superficial, less lethal injuries.

Suffice it to say, this was not how their return trip was supposed to go. They had broken camp early and made good time, with significantly less banter and hijinks than usual. A solemn mood had followed the party like a stormcloud, and it seemed everyone was ready to be done with this mission. So, of course the party had stumbled into a small army of Shades, and Fenris had inexplicably been laid out as easily as a baby deer in a Darkspawn warren.

An odd, concussive sound – like an enormous bubble had just popped – caused Anders to look up. His ears popped with a sudden pressure change just as Hawke’s body flew backwards towards him. Anders cast a barrier on her in a heartbeat, but it proved unnecessary as Hawke arced her body to land with her feet under her, a hand splayed before her to maintain balance as she skidded. “Anders!” she barked over her shoulder. “We have company!”

The mage darted his gaze toward the path Hawke had just been forcefully removed from, about to ask where Isabela was when the rogue suddenly slipped out of stealth nearby. “He’s just around the bend, and he’s angrier than a hillbilly with a snoot full of honeybees!” As if to confirm the observation, the glowing, scythe-like fingers of an Arcane Horror emerged from around the bend, already partway-through another spell.

Time seemed to stretch and still as Anders took a deep breath. The rigorous cultivation of control and careful situation assessment were among _very_ few lessons the Circle had ingrained in him that Anders didn’t resent. His mind flickered through competing priorities while he simultaneously sent out a large blast of group restoration.

With one man down, the Horror was a potentially fatal opponent, but Anders couldn’t focus his full attention on healing and still inflict damage. He would have to release the spirit’s healing boon. This meant he also couldn’t put his full strength into healing Fenris, but the elf’s most severe injuries were already tended.

With a resolute nod, Anders reached back in his memory for a trick Wynne had taught him more than a decade earlier. He held out his hand and directed his staff at his palm, conjuring a tiny restoration spell wisp that he left hovering over the wounded warrior.

Without pause, he turned and engulfed the mage-corpse-turned-demon-puppet with icy fingers of frost, then systematically erected fresh barriers on Hawke and Isabela. Judging himself to be at a relatively safe distance, he conserved the shields for the badass women on the front lines. Despite her ignoble first encounter with the beast – or perhaps because of it - Hawke was weaving around the Horror like a dervish, drawing its ire with tactical precision while Izzy darted in with blindingly fast strikes from her daggers. Their team was a well-oiled machine.

As if to mock his moment of pride in their motley crew, the Horror began to emit a blue light. Anders could just barely make out the shape of Isabela bolting for cover amidst the blinding corona, then pain wracked his body with spasms that sent him careening down to the dirt. For an agonizing, indeterminate amount of time, all he could do was claw at the ground and struggle to inhale.

Panic was just beginning to set in when he felt a current of healing energy wash over him like a sublime tide. His diaphragm relaxed enough to gasp in a breath.

For a few tense moments, he could do nothing but lay there, panting, as the pale green light of his restoration wisp flickered above him; apparently it had deemed his situation worse than Fenris’s for the moment. Eventually, with herculean effort, Anders rolled to his side and struggled to his knees. He crawled a pace to grab his staff, leaning heavily on it as he stood. The mage couldn’t see either of his friends on the front lines, but the Arcane Horror had apparently noticed him. It held a single, corpse-grey arm out before it, then flowed eerily towards him as if buoyed by a shallow but inexorable current.

A lyrium potion hit his lips before he realized he had pulled and uncorked it; the bitter, metallic tang burned its way down his throat just as the surge of mana burned through his veins. His staff whirled as he wove threads of spirit and force magic into a prison capable of crushing such a powerful foe. Knowing he would likely get only one shot, Anders tapped the Fade as deeply as he dared; his merger with Justice had significantly enhanced his resilience to the raw power across the Veil, but he was still mortal, still susceptible to burnout. With a cry that spanned the narrow gap between rage and pain, he channeled the weave through his staff. The effort brought him, once again, to his knees.

Head down, hands trembling in a white-knuckled grip on his staff, Anders felt the wisp unraveling as it crossed back to the Fade – with his mana tapped, he couldn’t sustain it in this realm any longer. A dozen or so labored breaths later, he heard a wet snap followed by a splatter, like someone had filled a canvas bag with soup and dropped it from a third story window. With effort, he raised his head to see that the final implosion of the prison had flung Arcane Horror remains far and wide. Silence settled over the Wounded Coast like an oppressive smog.

Still, his task was not ended.

 _Justice…Compassion…help me. Help my friends,_ Anders entreated silently. In response, warmth pooled inside his chest, an ember of vitality to ward off the shadowy grip of exhaustion. Anders once again struggled to his feet, unwilling to squander the gift of his spirit allies, and stumbled towards the gory remains of the abomination.

“Hawke? Isabela?” Anders cried in a thin approximation of a shout. “HAW-“

“Here,” Izzy rasped, emerging from behind a rock formation. Anders couldn’t help but note that the rogue walked gingerly and her posture was guarded, with her arms crossed protectively across her abdomen.

“Oh, thank the Maker - Izzy! Wait here, I need to find Hawke. I can only manage a few healing spells for now, so we need to get everyone in range for…” Anders trailed off as he heard a low moan nearby. A twisted shape lay in a depression of the path near the center of the gore-splatter, looking for all the world like a pile of Horror remains, but the heap moved enough to reveal a porcelain face streaked with blood.

“No, no, no. Hawke! Shit! Ok, change of plans - Izzy, can you walk?” The rogue gave a tentative nod and stumbled after him as Anders headed for the fallen warrior. The healing spell he cast reached her before he did, followed by moments of awkward groping as patted her crumpled form, searching for her potions belt. Finally, he found the satchel and freed two red vials; he tossed a bottle to Izzy, then gently tilted Hawke’s head back and poured the second down her throat. She spluttered, but swallowed.

Anders was surprised to discover how light their leader was as he scooped her up and carried her towards Fenris. She was only five or six inches shorter than he was, but even with her heavy leathers, and despite his looming collapse from fatigue, the mage bore her with relative ease. Gently, he lowered her against a wind-blown bank of sand near Fenris, and was relieved to see Izzy sink against a rock next to the elf. Pulling out his last lyrium potion, Anders released waves of regeneration magic over the party, compelling bones to knit and skin to mend, while simultaneously tapping the last of his willpower to restore some of the stamina each would need to heal. Anything more targeted or delicate would have to wait.

* * *

The crackling of fat dripping over a fire and the smell of roasting meat woke him. His mouth watered, but his throat was too dry to swallow.

“I think he’s waking up,” a tired voice said nearby. Anders opened his eyes, blinking at the glare of firelight that barraged his rattled senses.

“See? I told you, I’ve never met a man that can sleep through the smell of a roast pig. Ham works miracles. Oh, and blowjobs, too. Ham and blowjobs.”

“Maker’s breath, Izzy, the man is barely conscious yet. Give him a minute to remember his name before you send all his blood down below the belt,” the first voice said.

“Or, perhaps we could skip right to pesky matters such as food and water,” came a third voice, deep and gritty. Anders’ head was swimming, but knew that voice. “Here,” Fenris added, pressing a waterskin into one hand while offering the other for leverage.

Anders could only offer a grateful half-smile as he took the proffered hand and struggled to sit up, then pulled the skin’s stopper and took a tentative swallow. Once he managed to get a mouthful down, his thirst became ravenous, and he was sorely tempted to guzzle the cool water. Having previously made that poor choice, he paced himself to a few temperate swallows while trying to scrounge up some clarity in his scattered thoughts.

Fenris paced back to the fire, turning a spit that boasted a medium-sized boar that set Anders’ mouth to watering again. Next to him, the first voice, Hawke he realized belatedly, jerked a thumb towards the kettle that bubbled beneath. “Dinner’s almost ready. We’re feasting tonight; apparently Fenris is quite the wilderness chef. He caught the boar and scrounged up some leeks and wild carrots for a soup. I added some elfroot greens, because why not? We need all the help we can get. And Izzy…well, Izzy brought the booze.” She and Izzy both sat cross-legged near the fire, and each had a blanket cloaking their head and shoulders. Fenris paced, looking wet and cold.

“Don’t forget that stream I found; you can thank me for _all_ the beverages tonight. And for the bath you so desperately needed,” Izzy said cheerfully, casting a meaningful glance at Hawke.

“So, everyone is…alive, I take it?” Anders asked lamely. 

“More or less,” Hawke confirmed. “That one hasn’t said more than ‘yes’ and ‘no’ until you woke up, so it’s anyone’s guess,” she said, tilting her head to Fenris, “and I feel like someone tried to jump rope with my spine. But that one’s acting pretty normal, at least,” she finished with a nod to Izzy.

“Well, I’d be better if my stuff wasn’t soaked in demon ick; it looked like a volcano full of demon guts went off back there. I’m going to have to burn that bedroll when we get back.” Izzy griped as she began to ladle the contents of the kettle into what appeared to be an ick-free stack of nested bowls. Fenris squatted next to her, and, pulling his belt knife, jabbed the nearest flank of boar and tugged, pulling a sizeable portion of meat with it. This he scraped into a steaming bowl of soup, passed it to Hawke, and then repeated the process for the rest of the party.

Anders couldn’t restrain himself any longer; he devoured the meal with gusto and let out a groan of satisfaction. Potions were great in a pinch, but they were a delaying tactic. Likewise, healing spells paid off, but only if real nourishment could supply what the body needed to generate tissue and repair damage. It was a little-known contradiction in a spirit healer’s training that a healing spell could accelerate decline if the person was not given adequate follow-up care.

Anders cast a longing look at the kettle, but before he could attempt to stand and stumble over for seconds, Hawke grabbed his bowl and ladled him up another portion. She held out her hand, into which Izzy obligingly dropped a dagger, and began to slice off chunks of meat into the bowl. In a neutral voice, almost as an aside, she mused, “Though I can’t say I completely understand why we’re all still…alive. Last thing I remember was a flash of blue, seeing Izzy drop like a bag of rocks, and then the ground introducing itself to my face. Fenris was still down, back with you. Unless he woke up…?”

Anders took the bowl she passed to him eagerly, shoving a spoonful into his mouth while he thought. “No,” he swallowed, “I think Fenris was still out, but we were pretty far back. It must have been a proximity-based thing, because I didn’t get hit nearly as hard with that…whatever it was.”

Isabela nodded, turning an appraising eye on Hawke. “That tracks. I was definitely better off than you were, right next to it. Truly, darling, I don’t know how you survived that – you looked like something we’d find in the Bone Pit.”

“Aw, you sweet talker. But wait, if we were all sleeping on the job, does that mean you finished the Horror off by yourself Anders?” Hawke prodded.

Anders tried to crack a cocky grin, but faltered under the suspicious glare Fenris fixed on him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged, “I mean, I guess, but it was mostly dead by then. I just hit it with the ole’ razzle dazzle.” Anders wiggled his fingers.

“Uh-huh”, Hawke deadpanned. “Well then, how did we end up short-handed in the first place? I didn’t see any of that blue death shit before that asshole was coming ‘round the mountain, and it was in the wrong direction anyways. So, what crawled up your skirts, Fenris? I only saw Shades, and I was right next to you.”

Fenris didn’t respond immediately. Anders closed his eyes, trying to sort out the events leading to Fenris’s fall. “I remember a run-of-the-mill life drain spell – for you two, that might have felt like, oh I don’t know, a cramp? Some mild indigestion? I have no idea what a Shade could do that could cause damage like that. Perhaps we missed something? Maker forbid there’s another Horror out there waiting for us to crawl into our bedrolls…” He had expected at least a chuckle, but Hawke was starting intently at Fenris. For his own part, Fenris was staring avidly at his soup like it was offering visions of the future.

“Fenris, what the hell is going on?” Hawke asked. _Tactful as ever,_ Anders thought.

Much to his surprise, the elf sighed, then asked his bowl of soup, “Mage, what kind of damage does such a spell inflict?”

“What, a life drain? It’s more like a sinister bond; the damage is transferred via spirit magic as a healing spell to the…” Anders trailed off, confused, as Fenris set his bowl down and dropped his head into his hands. The elf rubbed his eyes, then his temples, while everyone else waited anxiously for an explanation that he seemed less and less likely to give.

Izzy, bless her, rushed into the breach. With a victorious “Aha!” she pulled a cloudy, gourd-shaped glass bottle from her pack and pulled its cork with her teeth. “I’ve been saving this Llomerryn rum for a special occasion, but I think being alive is a special occasion under the circumstances.” The rogue took a long swig, then held the bottle across the fire to Fenris.

Soon the bottle had made several circuits around the fire. The noisy silence unique to camp settled over the group - the stark absence of noise from civilization, overlayed with the ambient crackle of fire and the white noise of insects and animals. The intermittent slosh of dark amber rum being methodically drained. Occasional coughs and shuffles.

Anders felt surprisingly hale after the rest and a meal fit for four. The small sips of rum he had indulged in left a pleasantly warm, fuzzy feeling in his belly.

He found himself studying Fenris across the fire. Light pursued and retreated from shadow across the elf’s face as he stared into the shifting patterns. Anders had never noticed before, and was surprised to discover, that the lyrium tattoos didn’t reflect the light as a raw lyrium crystal did; if anything, the distinct lines of the brands seemed to soften, blending into the surrounding flesh under the orange glow. His snowy white hair was a different story, however – the strands closest to the flames caught and reflected the firelight, haloing his face in highlights of burnished gold. The effect was quite striking, Anders had to admit.

Then Fenris spoke, with a soft, velvety voice that sounded somehow empty, practiced and perfected to hide any subjective experience.

“ _Smitten, battered, beaten, torn,_

_thrice the harm each injury born,_

_bind this soul to spirit’s full scorn,_

_to suffer full measure of life forsworn.”_

Anders froze, his frivolous musings banished as realization dawned on him. “That was the curse? Fenris, is that what Hadriana said?”

Fenris nodded, his gaze never leaving the fire.

 _Fuck,_ Anders thought, his thoughts scattering in a thousand directions. It was moments before the well-ingrained discipline took hold of his ruminations.

“So, what does that mean? Aside from being the creepiest nursery rhyme I’ve ever heard, are there, like, practical implications?” Hawke asked, her hands rotating in impatient circles as if to draw out answers. She and Izzy turned expectant looks to Anders, but Fenris notably continued staring into the flames, his face unreadable.

“Well, I mean - big caveat here - I know almost nothing about entropic magic. From what little I do know, it sounds like a variant of a death hex, one that makes Fenris incredibly vulnerable to attacks that use spirit magic.”

“A _death hex?_ That can’t seriously be its name. _”_ Izzy spluttered, but was overshadowed by Hawke’s barrage. “Wait, what the fuck? If that was true, we would have known it by now, right? It’s been weeks! And aren’t hexes like, short-lived? How long could it actually last? Can you break it? Can anyone? What happens if –“

“Hawke,” Anders interrupted, “I know you’re worried about Fenris.” He waited a moment to see if she had anything to add, then continued. “Let’s see. It’s entirely reasonable that this hasn’t been a problem before; spirit magic is only used by mages, and as the Horror proved, the occasional demon. We’ve mostly been dealing with carta and Tal-Vashoth lately. And yes, hexes usually last a few minutes, but I suspect this is a curse, not a hex. And, let me repeat - I’m a _healer._ I honestly don’t even know what we’re dealing with, and it would be dangerous to mess around with an unknown spell in the best of circumstances. Add in the fact that this is likely Tevinter magic, plus any possible interactions with Fenris’s lyrium tattoos, and I think we need to gather a lot more information before I can even _speculate_ on possible solutions.”

Hawke glowered at Anders, looking like she might explode; if there was one thing the warrior hated more than careful planning and preparation, it was feeling helpless.

Frowning, Isabela took over the interrogation. “Wait, I’m confused. I never hear you or Merrill giving speeches before you cast a spell. How do we even know that’s what knocked Fenris on his ass? Couldn’t it just be, I don’t know, low blood sugar?”

Anders rolled his eyes. “I seriously doubt Fenris almost _died_ from low blood sugar, Izzy. And most spells have an enchantment, but they’re rarely used in Circles except for training apprentices. It’s one way to put words to what is otherwise an abstract feeling, and it helps young mages concentrate. It’s also said that enchantments are used for long or complex spells – just a way to mark your place, and to focus the energy. It’s the same reason why mages use staff gestures. The problem is, gestures and enchantments are not universal; at best they vary by region, like dialects, but sometimes they’re wholly individual. My interpretation of a Tevinter spell might be entirely wrong.”

Izzy was the only one who seemed curious. “Wait, so you and another mage might use totally different words or dance move for the same spell? How does that even work?”

“Well, again, they are just a way to organize an abstract feeling. We all use the same name to describe the color of the sky as blue, right? Otherwise, we’d never find words to translate that sensation for another person. But the way I experience blue, and the memories that I conjure up when I think of blue, might be totally different than yours. Magic is kind of like vision – we give spells names so we can talk about them, but they are unique to each individual.”

“That’s it,” Hawke snapped. She stood abruptly, whipping the empty rum bottle at a distant tree, where it exploded in a shower of glass shards. “You dumbasses choose _now_ to engage in a philosophical discussion on magic? Don’t you think we have more pressing _issues?_ ”

Fenris, who Anders belatedly realized had been silent this whole time, stood as well, pulling something from his pack. With a flick of his wrists, he unfurled his bedroll near the fire. “Give it up, Hawke. You heard the mage. He does not have answers. Perhaps no one does.”

“So, what, you think we should all just pretend like everything is fine? Hope we don’t run across any mages? You almost _died_ , Fenris.” Hawke paced a few steps into the darkness, then back to the fire. “I’m not going to stand by and watch some rookie blood mage turn you into chopped wolf liver. Maybe you should sit out the next few missions, at least until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“I see,” Fenris growled, his words even but his tone bitter. “So, I am no longer _useful_ to you.”

“Well shit, Fenris, look around! We’re damn lucky to be sitting here given the way shit went down with the Arcane Horror. I’m not blaming you, but I can’t count on you with a weakness like that,” Hawke fumed. After a moment, she added quietly, “and I won’t be the one to lead you to your death.”

Anders could see this spiraling, and to nowhere good. Tentatively, he raised his hand in a placating gesture. “Um, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I said I don’t know how to _remove_ the curse - but if I’m right about what it does, we can take, well, preventative measures so to speak.”

“And what, _exactly,_ does that mean?” Fenris asked with a flinty clip to his words.

“Well, look, there’s all sorts of enchanted objects that boost spirit resistance. And, come to think of it, there’s an old elemental shield technique I learned in the Circle – it’s mostly shite, but I might be able to modify it to provide sustained resistance.” Anders shrugged. “I’m just saying, we don’t even know what we’re dealing with, so maybe we should hold off on ultimatums until we do.”

A tense silence fell, and soon every pair of eyes was trained on Hawke. She paced a few more laps, then sighed heavily. “Fuck it, it’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.” With practiced ease, she removed the plates from her armor and spread out her bedroll. As the warrior slipped into the covers, she muttered a non-negotiable, “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Exhausted, Anders found his own pack nearby and idly wondered who had thought to bring it near the fire while he slept. With a lethargic tilt of his staff, he conjured a spell wisp to buffet the party with ambient regeneration magic as they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some ways, I stick to canon with magic here. All spells mentioned are indeed real DA2 spells (with the exception of the spell wisp from DAO, which is resolved with the convenient plot device known as Wynne [side note, we assume Wynne and Anders met in Ferelden, right??]), and I’ve loosely stuck to their purpose in-game. 
> 
> That being said, a lot of the mechanics of magic are not really discussed in the DA universe, and I wanted to play around with what a system of magic would really look like if it weren’t restricted to buttons. If it seems like this is a convenient excuse to make Anders totally OP, you’re not wrong. In my defense, it seems in-character at the same time; Anders got some valuable training in the Circle (esp. for the 2 years while he was doe-eyed over Karl and not running away all the time), but he also avoided the indoctrination aspect that could arguably keep mages from being creative. He’s a magic nerd, and generally lacking in self-preservation instinct, so of course he tinkers with spells. 
> 
> Another note, this one regarding Justice. I took it from comments in-game that, with the exception of Justice Smash moments, the two were pretty much like rum in coke – tricky to separate. I know it’s common to treat Justice as a separate entity in fanfiction, but I thought it might be fun to have some moral ambiguity thrown in. My Anders occasionally can tell when his thoughts or feelings aren’t necessarily his own, but my intent is that, in future chapters, there will be some instances where he realizes how much the lines have blurred and wonders who is running the ship. I love motivation circle-jerks, though I promise not to delve too deeply into free will vs. fatalism.


	3. Anders Gets Handsy, Fenris Gets Stabbed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first section is rated (S) for smut-adjacent. It's relatively tame, but you can skip down below the first horizontal line to get back to the plot. If you're reaaallly here for the plot. 
> 
> True smut will have to wait until these boys get their shit together. I'll update the main story summary when I know which chapters have the good stuff :P

Twilight was just beginning to dance along the eastern shoreline when Anders woke. In the foggy haze of sleep, he couldn’t be sure the vivid images in his mind were a dream, but the press of his achingly hard erection against his breeches was undeniably real. His body was still on fire from the press of a warm palm that cupped and stroked, relentlessly teasing over the confines of the threadbare cloth. He could still feel the hot breath that ghosted along his ear from his tormentor’s chuckle at his squirming and begging.

The images quickly faded, leaving behind only the desperate need, as though he had been edging for hours without satisfaction. Suddenly remembering that he wasn’t alone, Anders surreptitiously glanced around, but the fire had long banked and nothing moved in the pre-dawn stillness.

Panting quietly through his mouth, he bunched his tunic up under his arms and untied the laces on his breeches. His cock practically jumped free of its confines, then bobbed under its own weight to hang in a straining arc above his abdomen. Lifting one hand to his mouth, he bit the fleshy base of his thumb to keep silent, slipping the other beneath the privacy of his blankets to wrap his palm around the base of his throbbing shaft.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and images of moss-green eyes and plump lips played across them as he moved his palm slowly up his length. With a small swirl at the top of the stroke, he palmed the leaking head, coating it in the ample flow of precum, then gingerly dragged his fingers down. Though somewhat lubricated, still the friction pulled at his slit, widening it momentarily until his fingers slipped over the swollen ridge. Gripping his shaft with two fingers and a thumb, he made quick, tiny strokes just beneath the ridge, a technique he knew would push him over the edge in moments. He heard a low groan escape his lips and hastily tugged his pillow out from under his head to muffle himself.

A velvet bass teased just beyond the reach of his memory; he remembered that voice of liquid fire driving him to the edge of madness, but couldn’t recall the specific words, only a commanding tone. Squirming, Anders wrapped his entire palm around the straining shaft and stroked down until he gripped the base, slapping the head lightly against his belly to delay his finish while he struggled to remember more of the dream.

He slowly traced his hand back up to palm his swollen, aching cockhead. Another image flickered across his eyelids; the perfectly contoured muscle of strong arms on either side of him that braced Anders’ legs back. Forearms of rippled sinew that danced when fists clenched from restrained anticipation. Shoulder muscles that bunched while he positioned himself at Anders’ entrance. That statuesque body, lithe but so powerful, each attribute outlined by the swirling embrace of tattoos…

“Oh shit, Fenris, yes, Maker yes,” he groaned desperately into his pillow, his body arching off the ground as the orgasm ripped through him. He felt the warm splatter across his chest, then his belly, as his entire body shuddered with the force of the climax. With a firm grip, he squeezed his overly sensitive cock, milking out another wave that pooled out of his slit like a slow-moving lava flow. Still he continued stroking, maintaining a firm, slow pressure that made his head thrash back and forth, eyes screwed shut, until he couldn’t stand it any longer and had to release himself.

As the waves of euphoria finally began to subside, Anders lifted his arm to tuck his forehead into the bend of his elbow. And then he simply laid there, panting. It was a long time before thoughts began to coalesce.

 _What the fuck was that?_ _Since when am I a masochist?_ Sex dreams starring the murderous elf could not be described any other way. And, yet, it was intoxicatingly raunchy, to fantasize about the warrior that dozed a dozen paces away. Part of him was ashamed, while part of him was further aroused by the secret, yet semi-public, consequences of that dream.

He couldn’t quite shake the rush, even as he set about hiding the evidence. Since he’d have to do laundry anyways, he wiped his chest and abdomen with the corner of his blanket, then tucked himself back into his breeches. Soon, he was gathering his bedroll and his staff; with a final glance at the camp, and a cheeky nod to Fenris’s bedroll in thanks for the mind-blowing orgasm, he set off for the nearest freshwater stream he could remember.

* * *

By the time Anders had washed his clothes, bedroll, and himself, the sun finally begun to emerge above the peaks to the east, bathing the shore in orange and red hues. He pulled on his wet breeches and retraced his steps back to the camp.

Hawke was squatting in front of the embers of the fire, coaxing it back to life with kindling, while Izzy had burrowed deeper into her bedroll to block out the multi-hued sunrise. Fenris was nowhere to be seen.

“Welcome back,” Hawke said with a nod when she noticed him approaching. “I was starting to wonder if slavers took advantage of our failure to post guard, but then I decided they probably wouldn’t be interested in your bedroll.”

Anders chuckled, spreading his damp belongings over a tall rock outcropping before digging in his bag for the dried oats and berries he had packed. “Yeah, well, you never know with slavers. They tend to grab first and ask questions later.”

Hawke cracked a lopsided grin, but her expression sobered quickly. “Look, I know tempers were high last night, but I meant what I said. We can’t bring Fenris on these little escapades if he’s going to be a liability.”

“I know that, but I wasn’t whispering sweet nothings either. It will take time to understand and break the curse – if we _can_ break it – but we can mitigate the effect; hell, he might have better resistance than he did before if I can figure out a good modification to the elemental shield. Besides, you two work so well together; it would be a shame to break up this party.”

“You know I agree, and you know I’m partial to an experienced team. There’s something to be said for knowing each other’s quirks. But I’d rather sub in one of our delightful friends than take any risks.”

“Well, one thing at a time. First, we need to determine whether we’re right about the curse targeting spirit resistance, and also whether there are other things he’s vulnerable to. Speaking of which, where _is_ Fenris?”

“Oh, he’s doing his dance routine. Forms, or whatever. He’ll be back by the time you finish cooking those oats, assuming you’re planning to cook those oats.” Hawke’s eyebrows drew together as she looked at him to see if her ‘breakfast please’ message was received.

Anders ignored the comment and the look, asking instead, “Forms? What does that mean?”

“Oh, you know. His little pre-dawn routine. Anders, we’ve camped overnight dozens of times – don’t tell me you somehow missed the show. Because, trust me, it -is- a helluva show.”

Anders took the bait, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “You and Fenris, eh? I thought you and Izzy were sailing into dangerous waters.” He lowered his voice and wiggled his fingers, adding “You know…feeeeelllliiiiinnnggs. OOooooo, scaaaary.”

Hawke unceremoniously punched him in the shoulder. “You take that back! The captain and I are…acrobatic lovers who sometimes spend time in proximity to one another. Win win. And no, there is no ‘Fenris and I’, though you can hardly blame a girl for looking. I mean, you could bounce a coin off that ass, and you can’t honestly tell me you’re not a little curious about where those tattoos end.”

Anders felt a warm flush creep up his neck - If she only knew – and turned to cast around looking for a container big enough to prepare breakfast. “If you ever decide to ask him, please do make sure I’m nearby. That would be one hell of a fight, though I hope you don’t mind if I skip the funeral. Did you bring an extra kettle by any chance?”

“Just this one,” Hawke shrugged, “but the one from last night is fair game if you don’t mind giving ‘er a scrub first.” Anders resisted the urge to point out that she didn’t need that enormous kettle to brew a cup of tea, instead gathering up the soup-encrusted utensil from the previous night. “Alright, fine, but don’t blame me if your oats are undercooked.”

He jogged the short distance to the shoreline, pausing to roll his pantlegs up before taking a few steps into the cool surf. The endless horizon of water tantalized him as he squatted, grabbing a handful of sand to scour the inside of the pot. His eyes feasted on the vastness of the sea, lost in the sheer possibilities that existed in such an expansive space, while his hands mechanically continued the mindless, repetitive scrubbing. Anders closed his eyes to feel the sand slip between his toes as he wriggled them. He breathed deeply of the crisp sea breeze until he couldn’t inhale anymore. He listened to the gentle lap of the waves and felt the fragile warmth of dawn light on his shoulders. _This is freedom,_ he thought with a contented sigh.

Giving the kettle a final rinse, he stood and turned back towards their impromptu camp, but his attention caught on a flash of silver; a figure stood near the coast’s escarpment, about 100 paces inland from the beach, in a roughly C-shaped outcropping of the cliff’s face. Even from a distance, it was easy to distinguish the ridiculously large Lethendralis, and, presumably, Fenris. The warrior was holding a deep lunge, his left arm extended forward with the greatsword and the right stretching behind to create a smooth line that ran perfectly parallel to the sandy ground.

It also did not escape Anders' notice that the elf was clad only in his worn, slim-fitting, dark breeches. The mage’s eyes traced the curve of clavicular pectorals flowing smoothly into deltoids, forming a bunched, sinewy cuff at the shoulder that seemed to wrap and cradle the elf’s rigid arms. Such power must reside in those shoulders, to maintain that stance against the weight of a sword that matched the warrior in height.

Anders bit his lip against the powerful temptation to stand and gawk, chastising himself for the impulse. The elf was not ‘putting on a show’, as Hawke had suggested - and though Fenris shared little of his past, the few details Anders knew of made him suspect the man had been an unwilling object of admiration more than enough for one lifetime. Resolutely, the mage strode back to camp. _What the hell is wrong with me,_ he wondered. Admiring the elf by firelight and watching his form as he practiced were bad enough, but that dream…

 _Maybe it’s because there’s a chance I can help,_ his traitorous mind whispered. If that was true, he didn’t want to know what it said about himself. Wise men did not examine their savior complexes too closely. On the other hand, he was beginning to suspect that Fenris had been the one to carry him to their makeshift campsite, along with his pack. _And how is that better?? Sex dreams in response to a_ suspected _single act of decency. Nooo, not desperate at all._

Knowing his frustration tended to spike and ebb quickly, Anders set about making breakfast and finished dressing while the oats simmered. He packed up his gear and checked his staff for damage or wear. He even stowed Isabela’s bedroll when the rogue finally roused – albeit grumpily - from her bed-burrow. By the time the oats and dried berries had softened into an edible mush, his self-deprecations had largely faded and his equanimity had returned.

Anders dished out four equal portions of oatmeal into cups, the only clean items in the mess kit. He brought the first to Hawke, who was perched on a squat rock, upwind of the fire, drawing a whetstone methodically down the blade she recently spent a moderate fortune on at the Emporium. The vaguely foreign sense of indignation he felt at the injustice of her routine splurges was easily dismissed, given the amount of aid she had provided to Kirkwall.

When she continued to sharpen her new greatsword without a word, he set her cup on the rock next to her, then took the second cup to Izzy, who was sunning herself in the sand nearby. The rogue took the cup with a wink and grin, patting the sand next to her; Anders returned the grin and sat beside her with his own breakfast.

A few bites later, Fenris appeared in camp; his silent footsteps never announced his approach, and his sudden presence always took Anders by surprise. Izzy perked up at the half-clothed elf’s arrival. “Well, hellooo muscles,” she purred lasciviously. “Anders made breakfast. Grab a seat.” Fenris grabbed the tunic off his pile of armor, shrugging it on quickly before grabbing the last cup of oatmeal; to give her credit, Izzy’s disappointed sigh was mostly silent.

Fenris stood nearby, lifting the cup of oatmeal to give it a sniff. He then made eye contact with Anders and gave an almost-imperceptibly small nod of the head before diving in.

Anders froze. The elf had never before acknowledged his presence in a group – well, aside from the occasional acrimonious repartee – and that small gesture felt alarmingly personal. It left him with a strange rush, a feeling he could only compare to a mix between knowing a secret and feeling exposed. _Or like getting off to a sex dream starring someone who happens to be sleeping next to you…_

 _All right you twat, that’s enough of that. The lonely puppy bullshit ends here,_ he growled inwardly. He was a Maker-damned adult. He was a powerful mage. He was self-sufficient. _No more distractions._

Hawke finally set aside her blade. She leaned down to grab her oatmeal, then paused as her gaze fell on each companion in turn. At last, she took a bite of breakfast and slid down the rock to lean against it, then turned her head to Anders. “So. You say there may be ways to… ’mitigate’ the effects of this curse.”

Anders nodded tentatively. “Yes, assuming I understand the curse correctly, and provided that we can figure out exactly what’s been affected…”

Hawke’s volume didn’t change, but her tone brooked no nonsense as she cut in. “I believe that’s enough disclaimers. Since we’re already out of sight and mind, it seems prudent to use this opportunity to test the parameters of this curse. Assuming you are willing, Fenris?”

Fenris glared at her. Anders wished he could get a glimpse at the thought process behind those large, moss-colored eyes; from his minimally expressive face, Anders could only guess that the elf was feeling resentful, but too stubborn to back down. “As you wish.” He finished his breakfast in two large bites, then turned and began strapping on his armor. Anders couldn’t help but wonder if he had seen a sliver of fear in the elf’s eyes when his glance skimmed over the mage. Well, he could hardly be blamed if so; he _had_ just been near death a day and a half ago, and _technically_ that was because of magic.

Hawke continued eating calmly, but took charge as always. “Since Anders can’t be sure of the consequences, I think it would be best to put you through your paces. I will test for physical reactions, check your defenses, speed, strength, and stamina. Anders will test all magical resistance except spirit – let’s save that for the finale, shall we? Isabela will test your ranged resistance, blocking, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your response to a critical organ strike. Anders will be on hand to heal, of course.”

“Hawke,” Anders protested, “Is that really necessary? I mean, honestly, the man almost never takes a critical hit, and I’ve never heard of a curse affecting…what, how quickly you bleed out?”

Hawke shrugged nonchalantly. “You were the one who didn’t want to break up the team, Anders. I can’t afford any surprises, so yes. It’s necessary to know everything about this curse that might play a role in whether we all live or die. It’s all or nothing, Fenris. At least, nothing until you’re cured, of course. Then you’ll be welcomed back with open arms and probably some sexual harassment from Isabela.”

“Of course,” Fenris replied in an inscrutable monotone. After a breath, he added icily, “I assure you, I am just as eager to discover if this vile magic has made me a liability.” He set his empty cup in the kettle and then stood there, looming, waiting impatiently for everyone else to finish their last bites of breakfast. At last, Hawke stood, hoisting her freshly honed blade up to lean against her shoulder, and strode toward the open expanse of beach. Fenris followed solemnly, and Anders and Izzy shared a look before scurrying after them.

The duel was simultaneously one of the most incredible and terrifying things Anders had ever witnessed. The warriors clashed, split apart, swung and clashed again at dizzying speed, with each kiss of steel ringing out across the water in a deafening clangor. It was the first time he had ever had occasion to compare the two; they usually took on such different roles in the group that he mostly forgot they had comparable skillsets. One of the first things he noticed was that Hawke was the aggressive one; she shouted, taunted, and cursed, driving herself into a berserk frenzy that only seemed to enhance her speed and power. Fenris was calm and quiet, flowing like water between one strike and the next, but Anders found him all the more menacing for his disciplined restraint. Otherwise, they seemed quite evenly matched. Each landed only a glancing strike or two as the fight wore on.

It soon became apparent that Fenris was not impeded in any way, yet still the duel continued. At some point, he considered stepping in, but Izzy must have been having similar thoughts; he had no more than shifted his weight to take a step when the rogue grabbed his wrist and shook her head meaningfully.

It slowly started to dawn on Anders that Fenris might actually be the better of the two; though both were sweating, Hawke was panting like a bellows, while Fenris looked as serene as he had while training that morning. At last, Hawke stepped back and drove her sword into the sand, holding a hand up. “Enough! All right, we get it. You’re a badass,” she panted. Fenris gave a nod and sheathed Lethendralis on his back with a soft, "As are you." Hawke retreated to the fawning of what appeared to be an extremely aroused Isabela. “You’re up, Anders,”she called, sweeping her hand out in the most peculiar invitation Anders could recall even receiving.

Anders approached Fenris and shifted uncomfortably. “That was a hell of a fight. Do you need any healing before we uh…do this?”

“No. I wish to get this over with and be done with it,” Fenris replied stiffly, unable to smooth the slight snarl from his upper lip.

Anders nodded, quite certain now that the warrior was concealing a strong apprehension. “If you’re vulnerable to any magical attacks, a little will go a long way. Since I’d rather not kill you after all that healing yesterday, I’ll start with apprentice-level spells without my staff. So basically, if you feel anything at all, stop me and we’ll focus on that.”

Fenris scrutinized him for a long moment. “Just keep in mind, mage, there are witnesses.”

Anders rolled his eyes, but let the comment pass. Truth be told, Anders was feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable at wielding magic against an unarmed _ally_ ; he could only imagine what was running through Fenris’s head. _Apparently, that I’d prefer not to reveal my inner monster when there are_ witnesses _. Or, maybe he’s hoping I will, and that he’ll get a free Hawke-sanctioned murder pass,_ he thought with an exasperated mental sigh.

To allay his discomfiture, Anders slipped into his entrenched habits as a healer and began by explaining what he was going to do. “Alright, this first one is a fire spell. Hold out your hand.” Fenris reluctantly complied, and Anders summoned a tiny wisp of fire in his palm, sending it slowly across the distance until it landed on Fenris’s fingers and winked out. “Anything?” Anders asked nervously.

Fenris shook his head, staring at his fingers with an unreadable expression. Anders repeated the process with frost, then nature, explaining each spell and checking in afterwards. He was feeling more confident in his diagnosis by then, and summoned a small current of electricity to his fingers. “All right, this is the last one. Well, second to last, technically…I suppose.” Anders inwardly facepalmed, then took a slow breath. “I have an affinity for electricity, so I’m not going to send a bolt your way; it will be safer if I just touch this little current to your palm – it should feel like static. Is that ok?” 

Fenris sighed and shifted impatiently. “Just get it over with,” he snapped. The elf kept his hand outstretched and steady, though his eyes followed Anders’ every move with trepidation. The mage lightly touched his pointer finger to the inside of Fenris’s palm, releasing the weak current he had gathered, then pulled his hand back immediately.

He looked up at Fenris, surprised to see the other man was slightly flushed. “Oh shit, did you feel that? I really thought that curse was only meant for spirit magic, but I might have been..” he trailed off as he noticed Fenris shaking his head, staring at his palm, his lips slightly parted. Silence stretched for some amount of time that held no meaning to Anders, until the elf looked up and started slightly, then dropped his hand brusquely. “No. Nothing. I am unharmed. Check for yourself if you must.”

Anders stepped back, shaking his head. “No, it’s alright, I believe you.” He turned and retreated quickly, waving Isabela over for her turn while refusing to examine that whole odd exchange. He was certain Fenris wasn’t lying about being unharmed, not with his life at stake, and that was all that mattered.

Recalling himself to the task at hand, Anders watched Isabela manhandle a crossbow, then set about summoning a healing wisp, holding his staff at the ready for the backstab that was to come. After Fenris had deftly blocked enough of Izzy’s dagger strikes to be deemed normal, Anders moved in closer, suddenly hating that Fenris would have to be critically wounded to appease Hawke. _No, that’s not fair. Hawke isn’t to blame. She’s doing what she has to do to keep us all safe. Better some pain here while we’re all prepared than a nasty surprise later._

Knuckles white on his staff, Anders watched Izzy drop into stealth, surprised to see that she looked just as displeased as he felt. Fenris stood tensely still, his face a blank mask, while Hawke looked on nearby with her arms crossed and a noticeable strain to her neutral expression. Anders flinched when Isabela leapt out of stealth, planting a dagger low in Fenris’s side in what would have likely been a killshot if the curse had any effect. The strike knocked the wind out of him, but other than a gasp and a soft groan, the warrior didn’t react to the blow.

Anders beckoned the wisp over to dampen the pain and buffet the warrior’s stamina for the healing to come, then immediately released a targeted blast of healing magic at the wound. His hand hovered above the entry, letting his magic penetrate into the warrior’s kidney and deep tissue layers first so it would knit without scarring. In moments, the wounds of the entire grisly day had vanished from Fenris’s body, leaving only blood, sweat and dirt as evidence. As if to testify to his fitness for duty, the warrior stretched, hummed a soft note of approval – or relief - and stood quietly with his hands behind his back.

“All right. I guess that just leaves the elephant on the beach. Anders?” Hawke beckoned.

“Maker, Hawke, don’t you think that’s enough for one day? We can test his reaction to spirit magic another time, or, better yet, we could just work on raising his resistance. Healers aren’t constitutionally built for inflicting needless pain on their patients you know…”

Isabela seemed similarly inclined. “Come now, my knight in shining armor,” Izzy purred suggestively at Hawke. “Let’s get back to Kirkwall; I’m thinking you could use a bath, maybe a massage…then we can all go shopping for baubles with spirit enchantments.”

“Yeah, I seem to recall a ring selling for a song at the Formari Herbalist, and doesn’t Sandal enchant spirit runes?” Anders asked, trying and failing to feign disinterest. Hawke had a way of digging in her heels when pressed too hard.

Hawke glanced at each of them briefly, then threw her arms up and sighed. “Fine! Fine, let’s head home. I’m pretty sure we could all use a bath, a drink, and a bed tonight. Especially the bath,” she added, waving her hand in front of her nose. Anders grinned, Izzy let out an excited squee, and even Fenris seemed to relax a little.

Anders gathered up his pack and started mentally planning out his research priorities. Despite the hardships of this trip, he felt strangely lighthearted on the way back to Kirkwall; things would be back to normal soon.


	4. Glowy Stuff

Anders woke to the press of soft, hungry lips. The kiss was intense, needy. Mind reeling, Anders tried to form a cogent thought, which was quite difficult until he pulled back for air.

The owner of said lips also pulled back, giving Anders a glimpse of mossy green eyes and a fringe of snowy hair. The name spilled out of him on breath that seemed forced from his lungs. “Fenris…”

The previous evening trickled back to him slowly, a leaky faucet of information to his sleep-hazed mind. The elf had stormed into the clinic, without salutation or – a much more common occurrence – copious blood loss. “Something is wrong. Poison, perhaps, or another _gift_ from Hadriana,” he growled, stomping over to a cot without invitation. _Oh, hello Fenris, please come in, make yourself at home. What seems to be the trouble?_ Anders thought, exasperated. He stood there, mutely, glancing back and forth between the irritable elf and the door, which somehow remained both intact and locked.

Fenris had noticed his look, then apparently dismissed his concerns summarily. “I phased through it. Mage, I require medical intervention. Gather your wits and do your…” – a vague hand gesture – “glowy stuff.”

So, Anders had done ‘glowy stuff’, but found nothing particularly aberrant. He couldn’t detect any toxins or their manifest cellular damage. He had asked for more of an explanation while he worked, but Fenris had only given vague information along the lines of ‘something feeling off’. No, he didn’t know when it started, and no, nothing unusual happened to precipitate the symptoms.

It had been nearly six months since they had dispatched the Magister’s apprentice. Despite months of searching through begged and borrowed tomes, and after an extremely vague discussion with Merrill (for Fenris had been adamant that the witch not be involved), Anders had learned almost nothing about the curse Hadriana had used. Fenris had refused to give him names of Tevinter contacts, certain that Danarius would be quick to learn of any inquiries, and the letters Anders had sent under pseudonym to various Circles were never returned. By then, Fenris’s spirit resistance was bolstered by several accessories and runes, and though Anders had managed to successfully modify an elemental shield, thus far the elf had not needed the added protection. Then, a par-for-the-course kerfuffle with Isabela had led to a rather serious Qunari uprising, and Anders’ quest to break the curse had been largely relegated to the backburner. 

Given the mystery surrounding Fenris’s curse, he immediately suspected arcane causes in this new symptomology. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be certain either way; myriad layers of lyrium, blood magic and Maker-knows-what-else made it extremely difficult for even a spirit healer to spot, untangle and dispel curses from the elf. If there was another component to the curse, it wasn’t anything he was familiar with.

Without recourse, and with no clear understanding of what was actually wrong, Anders had tossed Fenris a blanket and told him to stay the night for observation - and wake him if anything changed.

Now, lying in his bed, Anders gave Fenris several slow, owlish blinks, unsure how much time had passed in his reverie. _Shit, it’s awkward now, right?_ he wondered, then further castigated himself with how obviously awkward it was regardless of any delay on his part.

“Fenris,” he repeated.

So many nights spent moaning that exact word into his hand or pillow; ever since Anders had begun to notice little details about the warrior, he found his thoughts constantly returning to Fenris - his voice, his body, his speed and silence and rough edges.

As poorly as his mental faculties had served him thus far, the incongruity of hearing that forbidden name spoken aloud seemed to kick-start his capacity for higher-order thinking once again. “Fenris, what the fuck??” Seemingly of their own accord, his palms splayed across Fenris’s hide cuirass and gave a shove. To Anders' surprise, the elf was impeccably balanced despite his awkward position, half-leaning over the bed, which apparently gave the warrior the density of a dying star; he barely budged.

Fenris, for his part, seemed baffled and possibly affronted by Ander’s reaction. Emotions flit across his face in rapid succession; confusion, frustration, anger, _rage._ Maybe a flicker of hurt? Eventually, those statuesque features settled into a blank glare that fully epitomized his wild success at routing Wicked Grace nights. With a disdainful huff, the elf met Anders’ eyes and growled in a stiff, blunted monotone, “Forgive me. This did not go as planned.” With that, he straightened, turned, and marched towards the door.

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold on. You can’t just barge in and _kiss_ someone without so much as a how-de-do!” Especially not when their shared history consisted primarily of mutual antagonism, bitter arguments, and deeply repressed (and frankly masochistic) erotic fantasies - well, for one of them, anyways. “What…what was that? I mean, I’m not sure you’ve ever said three words to me that were not buried in anti-mage bigotry. You _hate_ me.” Anders spread his palms, “I mean…what the fuck?” _Eloquent as always,_ he sighed inwardly.

Fenris paused at the door and turned back to face the mage, but his glare didn’t budge a micron. “False.”

“…What?? Honestly, Fenris…you have to tell me if this is a sick joke. Or if I’m lying moribund in a ditch somewhere from a wicked head wound and hallucinating all this,” Anders spluttered.

“You claim I have never uttered three words to you beside _anti-mage bigotry_ ,” Fenris replied, his tone gratuitously implying quotes around the bigotry part. “Which is false. I just said eight words that did not reference your status as a mage once.”

Had it been from anyone but Fenris, Anders might almost have considered that a joke. His brain promptly short-circuited, and his defensive sass fled in favor of a dumbfounded stare. There were no words for this situation. Fenris turned back to the door, pausing with a hand on the frame. “I told you I was poisoned. Or…something. Something is wrong, mage, but I see there is no help to be found here.” With that, he flicked the lock and exited the clinic.

_Huh. He used the door like a normal person this time._

* * *

He didn’t see Fenris for weeks afterwards. Hawke had begun to act as meat shield whenever she requested Anders’ presence on her merry quests of murder and plunder, though she griped constantly about the lack of another warrior to share the burden. “More carnage, less strategy”, she was fond of saying. Admittedly, Anders’ presence was requested less and less frequently of late. It was all a little odd. Until recently, Hawke had shown up at the clinic with Izzy and Fenris in tow every couple of days. _I guess I’m on the ‘B’ team now,_ he thought sardonically - though if Hawke knew anything about Fenris’s awkward visit to the clinic, she wasn’t sharing.

No one seemed to have seen much of Fenris recently. Anders had tried to subtly probe for information during their rare outings, and had also not-so-subtly interrogated Isabela during her recurrent visits to the clinic. For all the pirate loved gossip, she was one of the few people Anders knew that could be counted on to keep a secret. He did, of course, have to endure a trial of squees and lewd questions, but at least Izzy promised to keep her mouth shut and her ears open for news of the cantankerous elf.

Something continued to nag at him. Fenris had phased in that night, but he used the door to leave. It might have been the locked clinic door, but usually the elf just pounded continuously if he was bleeding out after hours. No, he had been in a hurry that night. A pit in Anders’ stomach accompanied the realization that Fenris had been _scared_. For all the verbal vitriol between them, Anders was a healer, and he had failed to help Fenris when he was in need.

As a last resort, Anders had visited Fenris’s Hightown mansion. An apparent horde of butterflies decided to frolic in his stomach as he stood before the heavy door; he had made many house-calls before, but never to Hightown, and rarely were his checkups so heavily motivated by guilt. He glanced nervously about, fully aware of how out-of-place he was among the clean streets and finely dressed upper echelons of Kirkwall society.

With a steadying sigh, he knocked. Silence. He knocked again, wondering if Fenris was even home. But if he wasn’t home, and he wasn’t with Hawke, where else _could_ he be? With a figurative twist of the guilt-knife, Anders became acutely aware of how little he knew of the elf’s routine; where did the man spend his time when not adventuring with Hawke? Where did he eat? Did he have friends? Hobbies? _Maker, am I really just as bad as he is?_ Anders chastised himself, realizing how easy it was to criticize the elf for ignoring the plight of mages while he himself knew nothing of the man but his talent for beheading slavers; well, that, and his infuriatingly handsome face.

The sound of glass shattering inside interrupted Anders’ rapidly-spiraling self-flagellation. “Fenris? Are you in there? It’s Anders. I just wanted to…check up on you,” he called. He waited. He knocked again. Waited. He was considering the likelihood that he could pick a Hightown lock in broad daylight without consequence when a familiar voice echoed across the tiled square. For such a small woman, it never ceased to amaze Anders how well Hawke’s voice carried. “Anders! There you are. We looked everywhere for you.”

“And by ‘looked everywhere’, she means we stopped by Darktown. What I wanna know is what Blondie is doing in front of Broody’s door? Is this some sort of masochistic Justice thing I don’t know about?”

“Why hello, Hawke. Varric.” Anders turned to see the pair emerge from the staircase leading up from the Chantry plaza. “And no, this is not some ‘masochistic Justice thing’ - just the usual healer inquiries. No salacious details, I’m afraid.” Before the dwarf could press the issue, he continued, “What brings you here?”

“Rumor has it a new crop of slavers has sprouted up at the docks. I was hoping you might like to put those magic fingers of yours to work tonight,” Hawke said with a flirtatious wink.

“Sounds like a Tuesday. Count me in.” Anders hesitated a moment before asking, “Ah, so I take it Fenris will be joining you…?”

Varric raised an eyebrow, but Hawke interrupted with a merry laugh. “Well, I have yet to ask him, but I hear the leader goes by ‘Leashmaster’, so I suspect he’ll be interested.”

“Hell,” Varric said, “I’m pretty sure he’d get all growly and do that fisting thing if we tried to keep him out of it, and I for one don’t want to be on the wrong end of Broody’s glowing fists.”

Anders shook his head with a grin, inwardly marveling at how well Izzy’s ‘magical fisting’ moniker had caught on. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. See you tonight, then.” He turned to leave, but was stymied by the far-too-observant dwarf interjecting, “Leaving already? Here I thought you had ‘healer inquiries’ to attend to?”

Anders scowled, but Hawke was already pummeling the door and chanting, “Can Fenris come out and plaaay?” Anders rolled his eyes. He was about to inform her that Fenris didn’t seem to be inclined to answer the door – or, at least he hadn’t in the past 15 minutes – when said door flew open. Fenris loomed in the entry with an arm braced against one side and a hip against the other, the living personification of a ‘do not enter’ sign.

“Hawke,” the elf said, neither a greeting nor a question – merely a statement.

“Well, hello Broody! Nice to see you too. How are things? Me? Oh, I’m well…” Varric groused. 

Fenris acknowledged Varric with a glance and a nod before his eyes flicked back to Hawke.

“We’re going Slaver-ing tonight, I thought you might like to join the fun. Docks at midnight.” Anders facepalmed; despite having informed their fearless leader that ‘slavering’ was in fact a real word, with a definition quite different from her usage, Hawke continued to use it as she saw fit. To be fair, hunting slavers occurred with frequent enough regularity as to deserve its own slang.

“Better yet, I’m hosting Wicked Grace night tonight – you should stop by, Broody. It’s actually a lot more fun to kill slavers with a little buzz. Plus, if you win, killing the slavers is a great way to celebrate – and if you lose, you still get the consolation prize of, you guessed it, killing slavers,” Varric reasoned.

Fenris seemed to think on that, before replying “Maybe. Either way, docks at midnight. I will be there,” Fenris said with a nod to Hawke. He immediately began to swing the door shut, but Anders mustered his courage and stammered out, “Er, Fenris, could I have a word?”

“No,” came the reply, punctuated by the slam of the door shortly thereafter.


	5. The One With Banter and Actual Conversations

The band must live in the Hanged Man, Anders decided. He had yet to enter the tavern without the indefatigable group injecting some pep into the otherwise dreary atmosphere. It baffled him that such a small collection of instruments – a lute, drum, flute and pipe – could fill the dank building with such warmth. Kirkwall must be a cutthroat place for musicians; surely this group was too skilled for such a place?

The music followed him up the stairs. Not even halfway up - it was a testament to Varric’s devotion to that bloody crossbow that the dwarf didn’t seem to require a _door -_ he could see that he was likely the last to arrive. Luckily, he had prepared for this contingency. In exchange for his treatment (and discretion) regarding a particularly icky infestation, Norah had offered to smuggle him trays loaded with brandy-spiked cider for the rare occasions he attended Wicked Grace nights. Anders silently blessed the waitresses’ kind nature – and no small amount of pride – for insisting on their crabs-for-brandy arrangement as he entered the suite at the top of the stairs.

“Hey Blondie, you made it!”

“Errrr’s my favorite *hic* Grey Warden…abomination…apostate spirit healer…Grey apostination? Spinationtate? Wait wait, I’ll get there. Grey wapostate-anation…”

“Oh dear. Hawke has had quite a few libations this evening, and she’s so little!”

“Yes, kitten, but she carries a big sword. Besides, ‘apostination’ isn’t half bad. It sounds like a place where rebel mages meet up for secret orgies…”

Anders stood there, awkwardly trying to fit a greeting in between the repartee, before finally giving up and placing the tray of drinks on a corner of the table opposite the clearly inebriated Hawke. He took an empty stool next to Varric, who sat at the head of the table. This gave him the best view in the house: across from him sat the beautiful Izzy and the drop-dead gorgeous dwarven bookshelves behind her. To the pirate’s right was Aveline, perched board-straight on her stool and striking an imposing figure in her guard armor; Isabela looked almost dainty beside her. Hawke took the head opposite Varric, with doe-eyed Merrill so close to her right that her stool jutted out from the table’s corner.

“Of course it sounds like that. To a slattern.”

“Oh ho, touché big girl. And here I was hoping you might decide to extract the stick up your arse once you and Donnic settled in. How is the Lieutenant, by the way?”

“Yesh, Ahvaln, ish he….cockshure?” Hawke slurred.

The Captain sighed. “Just…. get it out of your system.”

“Did he curl your toes? Praise your Maker? Float your frigate?” Isabela blurted.

“Ooooh, did he explore your Deep Roads?” Merrill chirped.

Strangely, Varric seemed to be having the hardest time keeping a straight face. “Did he pudding your peach? Grey your Warden?”

“Did he shatisfy the demands of yer Qun?” Even drunk, the Champion was a spitfire.

“Did he Arl your Eamon?” Anders asked helpfully.

Anders almost spilled his drink when a cultured yet gravelly bass from the doorway asked, “Did he cup your joining?”

“Fenris! What a surprise! Have a seat, darling – yes, right there where I can keep an eye on you.” Isabela winked at him and gestured to the empty stool to Anders’ left. He might have protested, but Izzy zeroed right back in on Aveline like a dog with a bone. “No, really big girl – did he master your taint? That’s an old one.”

“Yes, all right? Yes! He is an incredibly proficient lover. Happy??” Aveline barked. Even in the flickering lamplight, her face appeared to be competing with the runes on Varric’s table for the deepest shade of crimson.

In the dangerous silence that followed, Isabela swiped a mug of cider and took a dainty sip. With regal nonchalance, she sniffed, “Well that's rather personal, don't you think?”

The laughter that followed gave Anders a chance to steal a sideways glance at Fenris. The elf seemed to be in one piece, all limbs accounted for, no overt signs of fatal illness. Perhaps Anders had indeed been worried over nothing. If there was anything he excelled at, it was guilt-spiraling. Although…that entrance had been peculiar. Anders knew Fenris was sharp; he could size up a situation faster than a snake-oil salesman, but he rarely participated in the bawdy banter so common among the little band of misfits.

Anders shook his head. He didn’t really know anything about the elf. It was hardly fair to assume Fenris cracking a joke was a _symptom._

Despite a mild undertone of guilt that simmered whenever he participated in indulgences like drinking, Anders nursed a spiked cider through the first round of cards. The rarity of said indulgences combined with an empty stomach gave him a pleasant buzz, immersed as he was in the friendly barbs and boasts among his friends.

And really, after 6-ish years, that’s what they were for the most part. After all, it was hard to throw stones at someone for keeping a dangerous relic in a naïve attempt to learn about their lost culture when you yourself had unearthed a relic so dangerous it incited fratricide, or tried to get your friends to purchase goats and wheat for a dowry. _Or nearly killed an innocent girl because you’re an abomination,_ he sighed inwardly. Really, there was nothing better for promoting tolerance than a “I’ll put up with your shit if you put up with mine” mentality. Animosity was hard to maintain when everyone knew everyone else’s dark secrets.

Again he glanced to his left. Well, maybe there was still _some_ animosity left.

The festivities came to a screeching halt when, after a few more rounds of cards, Hawke unceremoniously stood, weaved her way over to Varric’s bed, and slumped into it with mumbled instructions to wake her at midnight. Izzy followed her to the bed, promising to get her to their date at the docks on time and mostly sober; everyone seemed to take that as their cue to leave. Varric sighed, pulling out a stash of blankets from underneath his couch; it seemed this was not the first time Hawke had commandeered the dwarf’s bed.

Aveline took Merrill by the hand and led her down the stairs like a mother hen, clearly picking up on the unrequited vibe the elf was radiating toward Hawke. Fenris paused to thank Varric for the invitation and gather up his winnings before setting out. Anders quietly gathered the numerous empty mugs and pitchers, balancing them precariously on the tray he had brought up. He tossed a glance at the two women curled up on the bed and smiled at the dwarf. “You’re a good friend, Varric.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to think that if the situation was reversed, she’d do the same for me. Hawke can be an ass, but she does the best she can under some pretty shitty circumstances. Don’t tell her I said this, but I think she’s one of the good ones. I think you might be too, Blondie.”

Anders flushed at the unexpected regard, but Varric wasn’t done. “And a word of advice from a good friend? Something is definitely wrong with Broody. Now, I don't know why you care, and honestly? I don't want to know. Just... don’t let him say ‘no’ this time.” Anders looked down into the tavern just as Fenris reached the door. He waffled a moment, weighing the disproportionate likelihood of bad versus good outcomes, but ultimately decided that any chance at helping was better than nothing. With a resolute nod at Varric, he hoisted the tray, leaving it at the bar before jogging out into the moonlit Lowtown streets.

* * *

He caught up to Fenris just as the warrior reached the stairs to Hightown. Afraid to startle him, Anders made plenty of noise as he approached, then called out, “Fenris! Hey, wait up.”

Fenris didn’t turn or pause, so Anders continued to follow him at a distance. “Fenris, I was hoping we could talk for a minute. I think I made a mistake, and I want to apologize. You’re not the type to overreact, so if you say something is wrong, I believe you.”

At this, the elf did slow somewhat, but then continued marching up the stairs without a backwards glance. “Your apology is unneeded and unwelcome. You did your due diligence and could not discern anything amiss.”

“That’s true, but you think something is wrong. I should have tried harder, I was just…well, a little embarrassed. I don’t want to pry for information, and if I’m honest, I’m pretty scared of you. But I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”

Fenris stopped when he reached the top of the stairs, turning to face the mage. “ _You_ are afraid of me?” he asked, eyes slitted suspiciously as if trying to suss out a trap. Anders, stopping several steps down, looked up at the looming elf. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’m pretty sure you would have won that duel with Hawke, and she beat the Void-damned _Arishok_. By the transitive property of duels, I think that makes you pretty damn intimidating.”

Fenris stared at him for a long moment, his penetrating gaze flicking between Anders' eyes as if to discover any hint of ulterior motive, but when he finally turned and continued walking it was at a much slower pace. “That does not address the fact that you found nothing in your examination.”

Anders took the comment as a tacit invitation to follow. “Well, that’s true, but I didn’t have much to go on. Like I said, I don’t want to pry, but… well, look Fenris, I know I’m not your favorite person to talk to.” He paused, searching for phrasing that was honest but gentle. “But I need information if we’re going to figure this out, and I can’t earn your trust without a little risk upfront.”

Fenris walked a long time without saying anything. Anders followed silently, mentally picking apart the entire conversation and trying to decide where he had screwed the pooch. He startled a little when Fenris stopped; apparently, they had already reached the usurped manor of his former master. Instead of opening the door, Fenris stood at the threshold for a long moment.

Finally, the elf sighed, glancing sidelong at Anders. “That is not entirely true. I saw you crush that Arcane Horror near the caverns; you are a powerful mage. I suspect you could likely kill any of us, any time you wish. You are _dangerous.”_

The warrior paused, as if expecting an argument. When Anders didn’t respond, he continued, “Yet, this vile magic is not your doing, and my desire to be rid of it is such that I am willing to accept certain risks.” Reluctantly, as if the words were poisoned daggers waiting to strike him on their way out, he added, “You earned some measure of trust that day on the beach. You did not want to hurt me.”

Anders' mind stumbled through a half-dozen responses, ranging from ‘of course I didn’t want to hurt you, I’m not a damn monster’ and, ‘how did you see me kill the Horror, I thought you were unconscious?’ to, ‘you think I’m powerful?’- but he was luckily saved from embarrassing himself with any of them as Fenris opened the manor door and gestured inside. “I will answer your questions if I can, but there are many things I do not wish to discuss, and many more that I simply do not know.”

With that, Fenris quickly paced through the corpse-ridden entry hall on silent feet, ascended the stairs, and entered the center room at the top. Following at a respectful distance, Anders got the impression that the elf did not frequently entertain visitors.

The warrior dragged two weathered but sturdy chairs close to the fireplace, then motioned for Anders to have a seat. As he set about striking a fire, keeping his back to the mage and his belt knife in his fist, he said tersely, “So, ask your questions.”

Anders cleared his throat. “Well, first of all, do _you_ have any idea what is happening? Are any of the symptoms something you’re familiar with, or something you saw in Tevinter?”

The elf stilled for a moment, then replied succinctly, “Yes.”

Anders creased his brow in thought. “Ok, well, good. That helps. Any you’re not telling me because… because you want independent verification? I mean, you don’t want to bias my conclusions with your suspicions?"

Fenris glanced over his shoulder with a surprised look, then struck a shower of sparks over his assembled tinder with the knife and flint. “Yes.”

“Hmm, I guess that makes sense. Alright. So, I assume either your spirit resistance is getting worse over time, or there are new symptoms, or both. Correct?"

“Correct. Both.” The elf fed some larger logs to the growing flame, then stood to lean against the mantle, staring into his creation.

“Well, I was able to modify an elemental shield spell; it usually provides moderate protection against all elements, but I can tweak it to provide massive protection against spirit magic. The downside is I can’t get it to last longer than about 12 hours, and I need to be within sight to cast it. Are there any new vulnerabilities you’ve noticed?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Huh. Okay, I guess that’s good. But…it’s odd for a curse to have impacts outside of vulnerabilities.” Anders said, thinking out loud. “So, if I were a soulless, maniacal bitch of an apprentice, what kind of curse would I cast? What is the long-term goal?” he mused.

Slowly, it dawned on him. “Of course! Her master. From what you’ve said, that asshole Magister – Danris? Dantarius?”

“Danarius,” Fenris supplied frostily.

“Right, Danarius. It sounds like Danarius has gone to a lot of effort to capture you. There’s no way he would send his lackey here without contingency plans.”

“I suspect that is true,” Fenris agreed guardedly.

“So, she realizes she’s about to get her comeuppance in the form of a fist through her blackened, bullshit excuse for a heart, and she curses you so that you’ll be weak to Danarius’s attacks in the future.”

“That seems likely.”

“Alright, we’re onto something. So, logically, any other symptoms from this curse are likely to serve the same goal. Are there any new symptoms you’re particularly concerned about? That is, if you’re willing to share.”

Fenris sighed, then paced across the room and returned with a bottle of wine. He pulled the cork with an armored claw, then took a long swig. As an afterthought, he tilted the bottle towards Anders with raised eyebrows, but Anders politely shook his head. Fenris proceeded to drain half the bottle.

When he spoke, his voice was blunted, and he never took his gaze from the fire. “There have been…urges. It seems we have already reached the same conclusion, so I will tell you this: in Tevinter, a slave is less than an animal. Some lucky animals may be coaxed into doing their master’s bidding with rewards and praise. Lesser slaves are simply broken, taught since birth that they have no control over their lives - that they eat, sleep, work, live and die at their master’s pleasure.”

His voice roughened somewhat, but still sounded like it was coming from an automaton. “Some high-value slaves are additionally spelled with a desire to please their master.” Fenris took another long drink from the dark bottle, while Anders tried to keep the horror off his face. It didn’t require a healer’s training to realize that Fenris would _not_ appreciate pity on his behalf.

“I thought my mind was my own after…well.” Fenris shifted uncomfortably, then continued. “After I ran, for the first time that I could remember, I could separate my own wishes from that of my former master. That has not changed. But since the curse, I find myself…drawn…to mages.”

“I see. That would fit with the hypothesis that Hadriana was trying to make you an easier target for Danarius. Although, it seems odd to generalize to all mages. It wouldn’t do for one Magister’s slave to do the bidding of any ole’ mage, so why would Danarius not want the curse to be specific to him?”

Fenris furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “I do not know. Hadriana was certainly capable of such specificity. It is a good question, but one I cannot answer.”

Anders throat was suddenly dry. He swallowed, then ventured, “I suppose that’s why you…why I woke up to…” he flushed, unable to finish the sentence.

Fenris turned to look at him. The elf opened his mouth, hesitated, and then vented, “I had assumed as much, but I cannot say. I dare not trust even my own thoughts under this damnable sorcery.” He closed his eyes and sighed, then looked back to the fire. “I am sorry. Although I find this magic repulsive, part of me hopes that the curse is responsible for that; I would _never_ inflict unwanted...” he trailed off.

“Oh, no, I didn’t… that is…” he gritted his teeth a moment, then tried again. “It wasn’t _unwanted._ I was surprised. And, honestly, a little worried. It seemed somewhat, uh, out of character. I wish I had been more clear-headed at the time, and I might have understood why,” Anders replied, valiantly hiding his disappointment.

When he looked up at Fenris, the warrior returned his look with a mixture of surprise and confusion. The elf’s voice was deep and rough when he spoke, “But I thought -”

Anders interrupted, desperate to keep some of his dignity intact. “Hey, the good news is that nothing takes the fun out of flirting like knowing the other person is _literally forced_ to.” He sobered, then added, “Fenris, I don’t know much about your past, but I know enough to say I am _not_ a Magister. I would never take advantage of _anyone_ like that. I hope you can trust me enough to at least believe that.”

Fenris held his gaze a moment longer, but the warrior's face was firmly set into that inscrutable mask once again. He turned, pacing over to a window overlooking Hightown. In a low, gritty murmur, almost as if he was speaking to himself, he replied, “I have already placed a great deal of trust in you, mage. The risk has already been taken, as you said. The rest remains to be seen.” He gazed out the window a moment, then turned back. “Come. It is nearly midnight. We have an appointment to keep.”

Anders nodded. He felt heavy, as though he had suddenly donned plate armor. Still, he turned resolutely for the door when a thought occurred to him. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like me to cast the modified elemental shield? It won’t last forever, but it will make you nearly invulnerable to spirit damage while it’s active.”

Fenris nodded, “Yes, if you do not mind. I… thank you.”

Anders cast his spell, then followed Fenris to the main door and out into Hightown. He was in the perfect mood for some slaver-ing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally started this fic, it was going to cold-open in the ‘lost years’ between Act II and III. Predictably, I spent time researching and organizing my timeline so I wouldn’t have big quest contradictions or loot temporality problems(?). Then I started writing, threw out my original plan almost immediately, and this happened. So, yeah, this didn’t go quite as canon as I had originally intended. Fair warning to take everything with a grain of salt because there will definitely be Act II stuff happening late, possibly Act III stuff early, and likely various other shenanigans like combo II/III personal quests. I wrote ‘6+ years’ in this chapter as a rough approximation of where things stood.


	6. Death IS Normal for Kirkwall

Despite the ever-increasing demands on Hawke’s time – she was quite a public figure now, with duties and appearances as was fitting for the Champion of Kirkwall – their group dynamic had somewhat returned to normal. Hawke and Izzy had apparently admitted to each other that there were some hard feelings over Isabela’s elopement with the priceless Qunari relic, and the previously festering wound had predictably begun to heal once exposed to sunlight.

Meanwhile, Anders had perfected his elemental shield spell, and no one had any cause to complain over Fenris’s performance. The team was working well together, and Anders was glad for anything about Kirkwall to feel normal or sane again, particularly after his brief stint on the bench.

As to that, Anders had heard from Varric (who heard it from a ‘little birdie’), that Fenris had been turning down Hawke’s mission invitations while he had been concerned about his weakening spirit defenses. Naturally, Hawke had turned to Aveline so she wouldn’t have to be solely responsible for pesky things like group survival. Aveline, in turn, had demanded that Hawke bring Merrill, knowing that the Dalish woman had developed quite the crush on the Champion; Varric took obvious pleasure in explaining that Aveline assumed spending more time in proximity to Hawke would quickly cure Merrill of her misplaced affections.

Apparently, his lack of mission invitations wasn't a referendum on Anders - it was merely one of the distal effects of a single shift in group dynamics. Varric’s gossip might be circuitous, but it always paid off in the end.

Even better, Anders had discovered that the warren of underground tunnels that he accessed from his clinic had a route that lead straight to Fenris’s wine cellar. Well, to be fair, Fenris had discovered the entrance in a fit of furniture-tossing rage one evening – the cause of which was so mundane as to be entirely forgettable – and Anders had correctly assumed that the doorway led to the ubiquitous tunnel system.

Regardless of who took credit, it made the journey to Hightown a much safer – and shorter – trip for the increasingly Templar-harangued apostate. As an added bonus, no one needed to know how frequently Anders was casting his spirit shield these days.

And so it was that Anders found himself trudging up the worn stairs of Fenris’s wine cellar, feeling guilty for closing his clinic earlier than usual, but glad to shield the warrior before Hawke came by for a mission planned later in the evening. Fenris had never explicitly asked to keep his declining resistance a secret, but Anders knew Hawke well enough to keep his mouth shut. Hawke was protective and stubborn; she wouldn’t hear him explaining all the safety measures put in place, only the risks. It was worth the effort of a few detours to keep everyone happy and safe.

Anders heard footsteps as he reached the top of the stairs, and, desperately hoping to verify the mythical dance routines he had heard rumor of, burst out the door in anticipation.

But Fenris was not dancing. Rather, he was doing quite the opposite of dancing, in that his unconscious form was being dragged by a chain attached to manacles about his wrists and ankles.

A band of at least eight slavers startled when Anders erupted into the room, but they rallied in short order. The battle-tested mage required only a heartbeat to erect a barrier around himself as they rushed him.

Something about seeing that limp, chained body… knowing the ferocity of the battle Fenris should have been capable of waging on these cowardly parasites, knowing how miraculous his escape from the mental and physical bonds of slavery truly was, and knowing with certainty that this moment had been _orchestrated_ , planned for Maker-knew how long, by a maniacal puppet master with near-endless resources at his disposal… it broke something inside Anders. He felt a brief loss of control as Justice surged to the forefront, but his outrage was such that even Justice could not seize control in that moment.

Anders intuitively commenced an intricate sequence of loops and spins with his staff while the slavers battered ineffectually against the barrier. Thunder rumbled inside the main hall of the mansion, but by the time the tempest began to frighten the foolhardy slave hunters, Anders had already won.

A brilliant bolt, forked like an eight-pointed trident, flashed through the room with unnatural precision. Eight fallen corpses sprawled in its wake, each with a single large, sizzling hole through the chest. The squall whipped Anders’ hair about his head, billowed his coat, and prickled every hair on his neck and arms. _Not enough_ , he raged along with the storm.

Anders sliced his staff through the air in a gesture of repudiation; fire engulfed each corpse and burned a brilliant white, reducing the former slavers to crumples of ash in mere minutes. Meanwhile, the tempest followed Anders as he stormed through each room of the estate; he found and annihilated another three would-be slave hunters. At last, he found what he was looking for - the lynchpin he knew he would find.

In an upstairs room showing years of neglect, Anders found the young man, dressed in crimson Tevinter robes, visibly shaking, attempting to squeeze himself into a child-sized armoire. “I will not ask you twice,” Anders gritted out by way of greeting, his voice hollow. “Did Danarius send you to this address? Or did he give you a name and a description?”

“J-j-just a name and description! Th-this place was o-o-one of many I was to search. Please, please don’t kill me! My master is very generous to those of our kind!” the mage wailed.

Anders exerted force on the tempest, compressing it into a coiling mass of pure chaos that could have fit inside the tiny armoire. He released it upon the other mage, his face twisted with open contempt. “I am nothing like you,” he hissed at the remains; the ashes responded only with the soft, high-pitched whine of searing embers.

And then... then there was nothing left to fight against.

Anders sagged, dazed and faintly nauseated.

 _Oh, Maker,_ he realized, starting as if woken in the middle of a dream.

_Fenris!_

He bolted from the room and vaulted over the guardrail, landing halfway down the curved staircase. He summoned a spell wisp in the few short paces it took to reach the fallen elf, releasing it to assist him while he assessed the damage. His breath hitched at the sight.

Fenris was sprawled on his back, his head tilted up and to the side, his limbs all facing the door he had been unceremoniously dragged towards. He wasn’t breathing. The mage groaned, feeling for a pulse, which was also absent. The elf was still a normal temperature, his flesh still rosy and elastic, so he couldn’t have been down long. The healer pinched the warrior’s nose shut, tilted his head back, and blew two deep breaths into Fenris’s lungs, watching sidelong as his chest rose and fell with each breath.

Closing his eyes, Anders placed a hand on the elf’s chestpiece, probing his awareness deep to pinpoint where to strike. He took a long, steadying breath, and then, calling on his spirit ally to aid him, Anders summoned a miniscule lightning bolt to the surface of Fenris’s heart. With his awareness entirely focused on the organ, he sensed it flutter and spasm; a second lightning strike reset the irregular beating, and blessedly, it began to thump a regular, if fast, rhythm.

Tears had pooled in Anders’ eyes at some point; he wiped them with his sleeve and breathed two more breaths into the elf’s lungs. When Fenris finally started to gasp in air on his own, Anders set about healing in earnest.

He knew the warrior would recover the moment he felt his spell wisp shift its efforts from Fenris to himself. At that point, he took a break from healing to carefully force the manacles apart and remove the warrior’s chains. 

* * *

Muffled voices filtered into the storage room off the main hall. Anders heard Fenris apologizing, once again, for not being able to accompany Hawke. Yes, he was alright. No, he didn’t need anything. Yes, he was still coming to put down some Dog Lords the following evening. Anders’ eyes drooped as he sipped an unfamiliarly spiced but blessedly warm mug of tea.

He had been on the verge of collapsing when the elf finally returned to the land of consciousness a short time earlier. Before any words were spoken, Hawke’s sudden, gregarious pounding at the door had taken priority; Hawke wasn’t easily ignored, regardless of extenuating circumstances. Anders had groaned, decidedly uninterested in explaining his presence, and had stumbled toward the closest door. Fenris, looking far less like a corpse than he had any right to - or than an exhausted Anders currently did - had observed the mage’s weary shuffle until he disappeared into the storage room, then turned to beg out of the night’s mission.

Anders found himself in an airy, kitchen-like room with a large fireplace. After some snooping, he procured a kettle, mug, and an unlabeled bag of what he thought – hoped – were tea leaves. He knew he was drained when the prospect of summoning a small fire spell was less appealing than striking a flint over dried straw. And here he was, having created a fire without magic for the first time in decades, sitting on a rickety stool, drinking tea, while the elf who had been dead mere minutes ago argued with the Champion of Kirkwall on the doorstep of his stolen mansion.

 _My life is strange,_ he thought.

He heard the door’s hinges creak as it closed, and several silent moments later Fenris was in the room, eying the flint striker near the fireplace with open alarm. “Mage, are you broken? I do not remember…I can’t…what happened?” he landed on. 

Anders lips curved in a lopsided grin, more at the look Fenris had given the offending flint than at his questions. “No, I’m not broken, I’m just…weak. I’m not entirely sure what happened. There were slavers; I found a mage with them. He claimed that Danarius didn’t give them this address specifically, but they had a list of places to search for you. Under the circumstances, I believe him.”

Fenris looked… lost. “Yes, I recall an ambush, but nothing else. Their mage must have been waiting for me, or I would not have gone down without a fight,” he growled. “So how is it that I am here?”

Anders hid behind a sip of his tea, trying vainly to organize his inchoate thoughts. “I…lost it for a while, but when the slavers were dead, I ran back to check on you. Your heart had stopped. I didn’t realize how much your curse had advanced; the mage they sent was almost insultingly weak, but he did some serious damage. Anyways, I got your heart started and then healed you, and here we are.” Anders immediately regretted the half-assed delivery; surely he could have prepared a less rambling version, preferably one where he had not experienced temporary insanity. _Great job, Anders. You sure showed him how totally not dangerous you are._ He sighed. He _was_ exhausted. 

After such a feeble rundown, Anders had expected a barrage of questions, but Fenris merely said, “I see,” and then was silent. After a pause, the warrior crossed the room in long paces, throwing open a door to a storeroom and disappearing within. Anders heard several other doors crash open before the elf re-emerged and crossed the room again. He sipped his tea while Fenris searched the house; he hadn’t explicitly said that he had already done as much, and it likely wouldn’t matter. Some things had to be seen for oneself.

When the warrior again returned, his posture was tense and wary. He stood in the doorway, staring at the small fire with intermittent, sideways glances at the mage. “Twelve?” he asked at length.

Anders tilted his head down and closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Although he didn’t fully understand it at the time, Anders had had an epiphany when their group had taken down Hadriana. It had slowly begun to dawn on him then that he couldn’t talk Fenris out of his fear and hatred of mages; in fact, all his efforts to debate the issue further weakened his position when weighed against the warrior’s lifetime of personal experience. And so, he had stopped debating.

Looking back now, he was finally able to name - to put words to and understand - his hope to _show_ Fenris that magic wasn’t synonymous with corruption and evil. He had been following a feeling, rather than a conscious awareness, that he wanted to show Fenris the good that magic could do.

 _And then I go and murder twelve people in a mindless fury. Oh no, nothing to be afraid of here._ He felt a wave of dysphoria as he remembered his final words to the terrified young mage he had slaughtered, and then, as if to drive the knife home, the words he had used to describe Fenris many years before. _Who is the mad dog now?_

“I should go,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know if there are more of those assholes in town, but it might be wise to lay low for a while. Maybe with Hawke, or Varric. Or you’re always welcome at the clinic, obviously.”

He stood too quickly and had to slump back heavily on the stool as a wave of exhausted dizziness hit him. Fenris took a step closer, looking equally ready to catch him if he fell and restrain him if he did anything suspicious. In a guarded voice, Fenris asked, “What do you need, mage?”

Anders took a few steadying breaths, then stood slowly. “Nothing. Lots of food and a few hours of rest. I can get both back at the clinic.”

Fenris didn’t move for a moment; his brows were furrowed as he watched Anders shuffle slowly towards the main hall. After a long pause, the elf seemed to make up his mind. He took the stairs two at a time, disappearing for a moment, then returned to the hall with Lethendralis strapped to his back and a small pack at his waist.

With surprisingly practiced ease, the warrior sidled up to the taller man, took his arm, and slid underneath. “I agree. It is not wise to stay here tonight. I accept your invitation.” With Fenris to steady him, Anders made the slow but steady trip through the tunnels.


	7. The One Where Fenris Tries

Anders woke to the sound of dishes clanking in the next room. He made a quick survey. He was in his bed. Something was in the other room. It couldn’t be a Templar raid; usually, when they tossed his clinic, he couldn’t even hear the sounds of destruction over the cacophony of their armor and cursing.

Then the interloper in the next room muttered an angry _fenedhis,_ and suddenly the evening’s events came back in a rush. Anders sat up, rubbing his face in his hands. _Fenris._ He had been too exhausted to properly thank the warrior for helping him back to the clinic, and had instead collapsed on his bed as soon as the elf extricated himself from under the mage’s arm.

He stood carefully, made his way to the wash basin, and splashed cool water on his face. He chewed a few leaves of foxmint. As a final attempt at civility, he changed into clean britches and a threadbare tunic, then pushed aside the curtain that lead to the main room of his small abode at the back of the clinic.

Fenris stood at the tall wooden butcher table, slicing apples into quarters and carving the cores out of each slice in quick, streamlined motions. The fire behind him boasted a large, simmering pot of oatmeal hanging from the spit, and above it, a pan heaped with scrambled eggs sizzled on the brick warming plate that extended out of the back wall.

Beside Fenris was more food than Anders had ever seen in the clinic before; stacked jars of nuts, honey, flour, seeds and oats, a wicker basket heaping with fresh produce, and another basket filled with dozens of white and brown eggs. A hard wedge of cheese wrapped in wax parchment was nestled between the two baskets. Beside him on the floor rested a large wooden crate with a brand proclaiming it to be one stone of salt pork.

Anders stood in the doorway, speechless; truly, the sight was ineffable. His stomach took the initiative, giving a long, loud rumble by way of greeting. Fenris looked up. Anders flushed. “It, uh…it smells great in here. Where did all this food come from?”

Fenris returned to chopping apples with practiced ease. “You said you required ‘lots of food’ and a few hours of rest. I procured ample food while you rested.”

Anders wasn’t sure what to say. _I didn’t know you could cook_ and _how did you carry all this_ both seemed to miss the point. _How did you pay for all this?_ was easily misconstrued. _I can pay you back for all this_ was not exactly true at the moment.

So, he said the simplest thing; “Thank you, Fenris.” A swell of emotion lent weight to his words.

He moved two stools over to the table, then pushed aside the tattered cloth that covered his meager pantry to retrieve pairs of spoons and large, shallow bowls. He turned back to the feast and nearly swooned at the smells. “I…wow. I will find a way to repay you, I swear.” He paused, licking his lips. “Can I just…dive in?”

The warrior quirked an eyebrow, taking the spoon and crockery Anders offered. “You are not in my debt.” It might have been a trick of the light, but Anders swore he saw the corner of the elf’s lip curve as he said, “And yes, you may ‘dive in’ - assuming you mean that figuratively.” 

Anders couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten so well. The first few bites, the best of any meal, compelled his eyes to close; it was possible that several involuntary groans escaped. In his overwhelm, the mage had missed many details of Fenris’s shopping trip. The warrior had obtained small clay crocks of salt, peppercorn, and a half dozen other spices, in addition to jugs of cream and butter. Anders noticed now because the eggs were richly flavored with cheese, salt and pepper. The oatmeal was redolent of cinnamon, honey, walnuts and cream.

By his second serving, he had regained enough control to slow down and truly appreciate the rare luxury of good food. Even more rare was the luxury of a kind gesture, but he quickly realized he couldn’t think about that right now - he couldn’t swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Maker, Fenris, this is…truly amazing. I most definitely am in your debt. I honestly can’t remember the last time I ate anything this good.” He looked up to see the warrior staring intently at his bowl, his cheeks sporting a rosy flush. _I guess he doesn’t get many compliments..?_

“I gathered as much from the noises you were making.” - _Oh. -_ “It was nothing.”

It was Anders’ turn to blush; he was tempted to apologize, but instead diverted the topic to safer ground. “So, um, where did you learn to cook like this?”

Fenris shrugged one shoulder. “Mostly through experimentation since I left Tevinter. Food is a necessity to a slave, not something chosen or enjoyed. As such, I was drawn to markets.” After a pause, the warrior added, “Some meals did not turn out this well.”

Anders couldn’t entirely suppress a bubble of laughter at Fenris’s tone, which implied the words were a vast understatement. “Oh, no, I need more details than that. What was the worst experiment?”

Fenris looked up at him, back to his food, and – definitively this time – cracked a half-smile. “There were many.” He paused, then added, “Pickles and apples on toast.”

Anders swallowed several times, breathing deeply, desperately trying to maintain his composure. Fenris looked up again and shook his head with feigned exasperation. “You may laugh. It was awful.”

Anders broke down into giggles at that. It took several tries to regain his voice. “But…but, why?”

Fenris replied with another shrug. “I did not know what red apples were.”

He seemed to debate with himself a moment, then elaborated, “When Danarius hosted parties, the kitchen would always prepare trays of small crackers with colorful foods on top. One of the more popular varieties involved a creamy spread, pickle relish, salmon, and, what I now know was parsnip - not apple. I did not have crackers or spread, and I detest fish. Hence, pickles and apples on toast.”

Anders took a bite of oatmeal to buy time while he digested the nuances of that information. “A friend of mine in the Wardens always used to say, ‘You learn by doing’. I don’t think I really understood that until now.”

Fenris didn’t respond right away; Anders was starting to become familiar with moments of silence when speaking to Fenris. The warrior gave thought to new ideas, and he took time to reply when time was needed. It was not a conventional conversation style, but Anders had started to appreciate the warrior’s thoughtfulness. “Yes, I think there is truth in that,” he responded at last. “Although, it took quite some time before I was willing to try apples again, without the pickles. I suppose one must also be willing to question if what they have learned necessarily follows from what they have done.”

Anders tucked that one away to think about later; he suspected some honest self-examination would reveal conclusions he had drawn that didn’t necessarily stem from the results he got. He shook his head, marveling. “And? What was the final verdict?” 

Fenris looked down, but couldn’t hide the smirk. “I love apples.”

* * *

Silence interspersed with idle talk consumed the rest of the meal, and before Anders realized, he had washed dishes and Fenris had stored the remainder of the provisions in the pantry. Anders set a kettle to boil, scrounging through the containers of tea leaves for one in particular.

“So,” he said, reluctant to bring reality into the comfortable ease that had miraculously settled between them. Steeling himself, he continued, “I really appreciate you helping me back to the clinic. I’m not sure if I would have made it by myself. I also want to stress that you are more than welcome here…” he turned to retrieve clean mugs, conveniently hiding his embarrassment as he continued, “It’s actually been…really nice. This morning. Having company, I mean.” He placed strainers over each mug, drizzled tea leaves in each, and poured the boiling water over them. “But I know it’s not exactly a mansion. I guess I’m asking what _you_ would prefer. I can come by and cast the shield as often as you need, but I’m honestly not sure how long it’s lasting anymore.”

He turned back with the mugs of tea and set the honey and a small spoon nearby, perching lightly on a stool as he waited for Fenris to sniff at the mug. “This smells…very good. What is this?” the elf asked in his gritty baritone. Anders smiled. “It’s apple blossom tea. I realized you haven’t slept yet, so herbal seemed the right choice. Try it with a dollop of honey.”

Fenris obligingly spooned some honey into the mug, then sniffed the steam again before taking a tentative sip. He quickly added another two spoonfuls, then sipped again. This time he closed his eyes and sighed. “This is good.”

“You have a sweet tooth!” Anders exclaimed, pleased - for no apparent reason - to know that.

“Yes,” Fenris agreed.

“I will have to keep that in mind,” Anders replied, sipping his tea in turn.

“The shield is weakening after approximately one hour, now,” Fenris said softly. _He also says what he’s thinking, non-sequiturs be damned,_ Anders mused before the warrior’s words sunk in.

“An hour?? Maker, I didn’t realize. I wonder if it has something to do with the modifications I made. Although, that doesn’t really make sense either, because we were getting half a day out of it for a while there. The only explanation I can think of is that the curse is somehow interacting with the shield, overriding it. I don’t honestly…wait,” he trailed off. “How do you know it’s an hour now? Have you been… I don’t know, testing it somehow?”

“No. I can feel magic cast on my person.”

Anders cocked his head, confused. “Feel it?”

Fenris huffed. “I do not know how to explain it, but yes. I am also aware that others do not experience magic the way I do. Since I cannot remember anything before the agony of these tattoos being carved into my flesh, I have nothing to compare it to. But I must assume these are the reason,” he finished, sweeping his hands down in a vague gesture at his tattoos. 

Anders blanched, his stomach tightening. “Oh, Maker, Fenris… please tell me it is not like that. I have not been…please tell me I haven’t been torturing you this whole time.”

Fenris wrinkled his brow and gazed at the mage with open curiosity. He looked like he was about to say something, then stopped himself. A moment later, he said, “No, mage, it is not torture. In fact, your magic can be… rather pleasant. I had never felt healing spells before yours." He paused, considering. "Some magic is painful to be around. The witch, for example. Just being in proximity to her spells sometimes feels like swimming through an ocean of dull blades.”

Anders desperately wanted to stay on track, but he also couldn’t prevent himself from picking at a particular detail. “Wait, hold on. Surely they have healing magic in Tevinter. How is it you have never…?”

“Of course they do. But why would anyone heal a slave?”

Fenris watched silently as Anders struggled to incorporate that information. This was hardly the worst revelation Fenris had disclosed about his time as a slave, and yet – perhaps because healing was such a fundamental part of him – Anders couldn’t seem to resolve the dissonance without a fundamental change in perception.

It cost him nothing to heal; it was as easy as breathing. Yet even that was deemed too much effort when weighed against the entire life of a slave? “You were right,” he breathed. “This whole time, I have never understood anything about Tevinter. Or slavery, for that matter.” He was angry for Fenris, angry at his own ignorance, and angry at the injustice in general. “Just the fact that I asked that question proves how far removed I am from your experience,” he railed at himself. Then, realizing that this was not the time for self-flagellation, he stopped to take a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Fenris.”

“Do not apologize. It is… reassuring, in a way, that you are unable to conceive of their casual cruelties.”

Anders held his tea up and took a few steadying breaths of apple blossom steam, unable to look Fenris in the eyes. He needed time to process. “I kinda got us off track there, sorry. So, um, about an hour. Alright. Well, what are your thoughts?”

Fenris hesitated. “It would seem that Danarius is aware of my new weakness. We should assume that all his puppets will know of it as well.” Anders nodded. “I do not wish to burden you with hourly visits. That is madness.” He paused again. “Perhaps you would be willing to accompany me to the mansion to wait for the next attack. Once my former master learns that I am shielded, he will likely devise a new strategy.” Fenris looked up, self-consciousness writ large across his face. “It will likely be only a few days before the next ambush, if previous patterns hold true.”

“Of course, Fenris. It’s not a burden at all. Just between us, some part of me has always wanted to be a magical bodyguard.” He felt his lips twitch up slightly at Fenris’s conspicuous eyeroll. “And my friend Lirene has been pestering me to take a few days off. She and Keshen, my trainee, have been itching for a chance to take the wheel. Soon it will be full-blown mutiny, I’m sure.”

“You have an apprentice?” Fenris asked.

“Not really. He’s a refugee from Ferelden – not a mage - but he was a medic during the Fifth Blight. He has steady hands and good instincts. I’m not quite sure what he thinks he’s learning from me, but he insists on being called my ‘trainee’. Anyways, speaking of which…Hawke is still expecting us for her raid on the Dog Lords tonight, correct?” Fenris nodded. “So, how about this. I could use a little time to prepare the clinic for my absence. And, considering the only sleep you got last night was technically unconsciousness, you could try to catch some rest before sundown.”

Fenris nodded again, adding, “Then we can move whatever supplies you require to the mansion and meet up with Hawke. That is agreeable.”

“Sounds like a plan. Er, give me just a moment.” He ducked behind the curtain and set about changing the bedsheets and gathering dirty laundry. He didn’t have company…well, ever, and he’d be damned before being a poor host. He shoved the laundry into a sack, slipped on his coat, and took a quick glance around the room before stepping back through the curtain. “All right, make yourself at home.”

* * *

Anders dropped his hands and examined his work; the blue light slowly faded, revealing healthy pink flesh where, previously, the child’s entire lower half had been blackened and oozing. The young elf’s mother had clutched the girl, whispering softly in her ear, as Anders healed the burn. No one would say exactly what had happened, but it was certainly not the first time someone had arrived from the Alienage with inexplicable burns.

He had been quite pleased with the day until the pair showed up. He’d washed several loads of laundry, dried and wrapped bandages, restocked the potion supply, and paid a bored Darktown urchin in scrambled eggs to fetch Lirene. He had packed up the perishable food and made a few additional batches of potions to bring to Hightown with him. The clinic’s patients were mostly regulars – folks with chronic conditions that came by for routine procedures or potions - plus the odd sprained ankle or mild food poisoning. Things were going well, right up until the elven woman came rushing in with the screaming girl.

Anders quietly gave the mother some follow-up instructions and tucked a few coins in her palm to be sure the child had sufficient food to recover from the extensive healing. Kneeling down to eye level with the cot, he pulled a small piece of chocolate wrapped in waxed paper from his coat pocket. “You know, Kela, you’re a really tough cookie. That was a really bad burn, but you don’t look like you were scared at all! Are you part dragon?” The girl gave a shy giggle and shook her head. “No? Well, you could have fooled me." 

Anders looked around surreptitiously, a cheeky dramatization of sneakiness. "Here, take this,” he said, pressing the chocolate into her palm. “Just don’t tell your mother,” he stage-whispered. The girl nodded solemnly, holding the candy cradled in her hand like it was a baby bird. The girl’s mother gave Anders a tearful hug before ushering Kela back through the tall clinic doors.

Anders watched them for a few moments with a sad smile, then, remembering it was getting late, turned to go see if Fenris was awake. Fenris was awake. The warrior was leaning against the wooden doorframe that lead to Anders’ rooms, watching the mage with an unreadable expression.

“Oh,” Anders startled. “You’re up. Good. I just need to grab a few things from my room, and I’m ready to head out.” He slipped past the elf, feeling strangely self-conscious, and started adding a few changes of clothes and personal items to his pack. “Did you get any sleep?” he asked over his shoulder.

Fenris’s deep voice drifted through the curtain, “Yes.” _Asked and answered, I suppose,_ Anders chuckled, still not entirely sure what to make of actual conversation with Fenris. Anders grabbed the tiny, faded pillow off the side of the bed, and was about to add it to the pack when a faint scent reached his nose.

Curious, he held the pillow up; there it was again, the unique, musky smell he had begun to associate with Fenris. If he had to put words to it, he would describe it as old growth forest; loamy soil, dewy sprouts, decaying plant matter and healthy green moss. Not the sweetness of spring rain, but the earthy musk of death and rebirth. Underneath it all was a very faint, foreign, metallic undercurrent.

 _Fenris slept in my bed,_ he realized. He had _known,_ of course, but somehow it was different to smell the warrior on his pillow. Anders chastised himself even as he felt his trousers growing tighter. _Maker, what is_ wrong _with me._

He quickly poured fresh water into the basin; splashing it on his face had the desired effect, and he managed to gather the rest of his things without further embarrassing himself. Shaking his head, he stepped back out into the main room, swinging his pack over his shoulder. He grabbed his staff and the package of potions and foodstuffs, then turned to the warrior. “Alright, are you ready?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, let's look at the elephant in the kitchen. I know that Anders being a good cook is classic Fenders fic goodness, but hear me out. 
> 
> For the first time ever, Fenris breaks free of Danarius and is able to choose what food he wants and when he wants it. I see it as a baby steps - an early expression of free will that the poor guy can just go to a market and buy/steal whatever food strikes his fancy. He has experience with fancy party food, as referenced, but has no idea what most foods actually are... so yeah. He's a bright guy, he's got time on his hands, so he experiments. Also, I mean, he _has_ to burn through calories just hauling that damn sword around, so it makes sense to me that he learned how to make food he enjoys. 
> 
> I'm feeling pretty confident in this decision. 
> 
> Also, a note: I feel like this whole chapter makes more sense if you track the approval over time. Save Fenris's life after the Hadriana curse? Fenris Approves (+5). Squish the Horror? Ehh, scary but also good, Fenris Approves (+5). Actively resist and refrain from hurting him on the beach? Yes please, Fenris Approves (+10). Talk it out, Fenris Approves (+5). Save his damn life again, Fenris Approves (+15)...and so on. With only Anders' POV to go off, it's hidden - but the grumbly warrior is watching and judging, and Anders isn't looking quite so bad these days! 
> 
> More drama, less domesticity tomorrow :)


	8. Guilt-Spiraling and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains short, vague non-con and PTSD references, non-explicit reference to underage non-con, and a very brief description of violence that is arguably more graphic than is typical for canon.

By the third day of Anders’ stay at the mansion, two more bands of slavers had attacked and been handily dispatched. With an elemental shield in place, Fenris was simply out of their league; Anders was starting to feel like a rather useless bodyguard, given that his charge was one of the most skilled fighters he had ever met.

The most recent visitor was not a slaver; rather, it was an urgent message from the Mage Underground, re-routed to the mansion by Lirene.

Anders paced; he had ample ground to cover in the large, airy room next to Fenris’s. Having listened to the furtive message, delivered by an utterly non-descript person with their face entirely shrouded beneath their hood, Anders almost wished the messenger had indeed been simply another coterie of slavers. At least slavers were simple.

He was in the extremely uncomfortable situation of not knowing the right thing to do. On one hand, helping to free those mages most callously abused by the Circle had become his life’s work; it was the sum total of the reason he had joined with Justice, and it was the only thing he had done with his life thus far that was, in some way, greater than him.

And yet, he couldn’t slip off into the night to aid the Mage Underground without a second thought anymore; he had tacitly made a commitment to shield Fenris’s magically-induced handicap, and any risk he took upon himself was likewise a risk he took on Fenris’s behalf.

 _Fenris_.

Anders could track his reasoning, objectively weigh pros and cons - right up until he added the warrior to the scale. That was where his thoughts became muddied and his logic frayed like a torn net. He could no longer tell if he was being objective, and what was worse, his thoughts vacillated so wildly that he began to suspect that Justice was exerting a much greater influence than he had previously realized.

 _Justice,_ he mused.

 _Very well, let’s play this out._ If the spirit were to take a side in this argument, he would undoubtedly be in favor of helping the Underground. The spirit had seen enough of his memories to appreciate the injustices mages experienced, and not just at a cognitive level. Justice had _felt_ what he had felt; he understood Anders in a visceral way that no one else had, or likely ever could.

And yet, the spirit was not a man; he was much less malleable than humans, which was, arguably, both a strength and a weakness. Justice likely did not feel the same degree of empathy that Anders felt for the former slave, because the spirit was single-mindedly devoted to a separate war that they could actually make progress on if he helped the Underground.

Anders was able to care about multiple causes simultaneously - but perhaps that made him more ineffectual at truly helping any. Then again, slavery in Tevinter and the oppression of Circle mages were two of the greatest systems of oppression in Thedas; how much would it really matter if he divided his attention between the two? How much difference did it make for a single termite to nibble at two ancient, mighty oaks, instead of one?

 _But you don’t know that; a single voice can, under the right circumstances, start an avalanche,_ he thought. Or, he thought it was his thought? Anders groaned. Again, he felt uncertain as to what thoughts were his own, and the effect was destabilizing, as if he walked across a shifting bed of sand. _Damn it! I’m right back where I started._

 _I should talk to Fenris,_ he decided at last.

The two had formed a fragile trust, it was true, but they had thus far avoided many of their larger points of disagreement. He wanted, perhaps more than he was comfortable admitting, to give their tentative – dare he say it? - _friendship_ some space to grow. And yet, when compared to the life of a desperate mage or the risks his absence could pose to Fenris, the worry that he might lose a fledgling friendship seemed utterly selfish. He owed it to the warrior to be honest and see what risks he was willing to take, even if it meant sacrificing their… whatever it was.

Anders took a few moments to breathe, mentally sweeping the clutter from his thoughts. It was a precarious thing; clear-headedness would be necessary, but the risk of chickening out grew with every moment he delayed. Finally, he steeled himself and strode out into the hallway.

Fenris wasn’t in his room, but a brief search located him in the dark, musty room at the end of the hall to the east of the staircase. He was filthy. The elf had apparently had a change of heart regarding the décor and had even gone as far as removing the long-desiccated corpses from the main hall. Anders hadn’t found a good way to ask where they had been removed to, despite some degree of curiosity. _Where does one dispose of bodies in Kirkwall…?_

The most recent spring-cleaning efforts had been devoted to pulling up tiles from unused rooms and reallocating them to replace the broken and missing ones in the few rooms that were used. The warrior had claimed he was sick of tripping over the uneven floor, but it seemed a flimsy excuse; Fenris was never clumsy. Broken tile pieces in bare feet might have held up under scrutiny, but Anders secretly suspected that having company was a good influence on the warrior.

At present, Fenris was coated in a thin veneer of dust, irregularly spotted with crimson where the broken tiles had scratched their revenge. Holes in the roof allowed irregular beams of light to trickle through, highlighting a dazzling array of gravity-defying dust motes. The warrior stood as the mage entered. “I know, I need a bath,” he grumbled, while Ander simultaneously greeted him with, “Fenris, can we talk?”

The mage shook his head. “Wait, what did you just say? You have a _bath_ here??”

“Of course. I only frolic in waterfalls under the full moon, and bathing cannot typically wait that long.”

Fenris’s expression didn’t so much as twitch, but Anders couldn’t contain a burble of laughter. He was inexplicably afraid to comment on the joke directly, as if it was a delicate thing he might break, so he responded instead with, “Maker, how have I been here three days without realizing there’s a bath?”

“It is technically part of the master suite. I have been remiss in not offering you the opportunity to make use of it.” Perhaps noticing Anders’ widening eyes, he added, “If you prefer, there is a second tub in one of the storage rooms downstairs. I suspect the two of us could manage to relocate it.” Fenris pulled a rag that had been tucked in his belt, wiping his hands off. “What is it you wished to discuss?”

And just like that, Anders’ short-lived mirth evaporated. “Ah, yes.” He sighed. “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out and hope for the best.” Fenris cocked an eyebrow, but Anders barreled on. “I received a message. From the Mage Underground. There is a…somewhat urgent extraction being planned for tonight, and my help has been requested.”

Anders couldn’t look the elf in the eye, and before the warrior could protest, Anders laid out his argument. “This mage is, well, she's very young – 17, I think – and very pregnant. It will be her second child. _No one_ gets pregnant in the Circle, Fenris – no mother would willingly bring a child into the world knowing that it would be torn away at birth, much less two children! But this mage couldn’t know to take the preventative herbs because she is being raped. We know which Templar is doing it – he’s a lieutenant - and we know that she nearly died when she tried to accuse him after the first pregnancy. We can get her out. Tonight. She’ll never have to be used by those _bastards_ ever again.”

Anders slumped against the wall; for a moment, he felt he was the one drowning in anger, pain, and helplessness. He bit his lip, hard, and looked up at the elf plaintively. “I made a commitment to you, that I would be here to make sure you were fighting those _bastard_ slavers on equal footing. I think I can keep my word and still help this mage. I shouldn’t be gone longer than half an hour, but if things go sideways, it may be as much as two.”

Anders voice evened out slightly as the topic turned from problems and helplessness to solutions and agency. “So, I devised a way to imbue a wisp with the shield spell. It will hold part of my mana reserves and should extend the spell to two hours.” Under different circumstances, this would have been a momentous discovery; now it was a footnote.

“But,” he added ruefully, “there is always a chance that someone sells us out, or we mess up. That is why I needed to talk to you. I know this is, well, a point of contention, and I really didn’t want to bring this up at all. But I can’t take this risk unilaterally, because it puts you in danger as well.” Having said his peace, he straightened. After hours of pacing and mental debate, he was well prepared for an argument and braced for flat refusal.

Fenris’s voice was quiet when he responded. “And so, you seek my approval in this?”

Stumbling over the innocuous question, Anders replied guardedly, “Well, yes, I suppose. As I’ve said, I didn’t want to take any risks on your behalf without your approval.”

“Very well. You have it.”

Anders was prepared for a fight. After all the time he spent arguing with himself, he was unprepared to _not_ argue with the elf. He was, quite frankly, at a loss.

Fenris knelt down and returned to the work of extricating intact tiles. After some time had passed, he looked up at the dumbfounded mage. “Was there anything else?”

 _Well, yeah – what the hell, and why, and…what?_ Anders thought, flustered.

He stared a moment longer before shaking his head abruptly. Realizing that anything he said now would not improve the situation, he shook his head lamely. “Uh, no. Sorry. Thanks.” He turned to leave, bumped into the wall, mumbled “sorry”, and walked back to his room.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he buried his face in his hands, blushing furiously. _Andraste’s sweet dimpled butt cheek, whyyyy,_ he groaned. _I can’t believe I apologized to a wall._

* * *

The moment came and went uneventfully.

Anders had spent hours writing down a methodical, step-by-step guide to casting the modified elemental shield; if anything went wrong, he wanted to be sure Merrill - or another mage, theoretically - could recreate his spell. He slowly siphoned off a portion of his mana, a technique he had reverse-engineered from a run-of-the-mill mana drain spell; this he fed to a wisp he had conjured to maintain the elemental shield. When all was ready, he wrapped himself in a moth-eaten black cloak, left the gauzy green wisp and parchment with Fenris, and descended into the tunnel system beneath the city. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard a low voice growl, “Be careful,” as he passed through the door to the wine cellar.

He was a bundle of nervous energy en route to the meeting place. His only job was to heal the battered mage and verify that the pregnancy was not a danger to mother or child – it had become apparent early on in his time with the Underground that Justice tended to assert himself when Anders was actively involved with removing mages from the Gallows. He suspected that Justice loomed closer to the surface even in this secondary capacity; the same fluctuating emotions he had experienced earlier still rattled inside him like a moth battering itself to death against a lamp.

He finally reached his destination, the sewers just beneath the docks. He didn’t have to wait long; a herd of shadows materialized from the tunnel to his right, silent as the dead. Two hoods flipped back; he didn’t recognize either face, but that was rather the point of the Underground. The mark of a good shadowy organization was that you literally couldn’t rat out your co-conspirators.

One pair of eyes jerked towards the other shadowed face, and in the darkness, Anders could faintly make out the outlines of swelling and poorly healed fractures around the girl’s eyes. He took a deep breath, righteousness steeling him as he embraced the aid of spirits. The girl’s wounds were properly healed in short order. He made a rocking gesture with his arms, then nodded firmly with a broad smile. The girl’s face lit up as she returned the smile, then darted in to hug him gingerly. When she pulled away, Anders could feel damp tearstains seeping through the shoulder of his cloak.

He gestured to a nearby ladder, stepping out of the way to make room for the remaining rescuers to pass. Once the crew had emerged from the sewers, and the grate was silently replaced above him, Anders crawled to the top of the ladder to listen. With adrenaline-heightened senses, he perched, ears straining for any information as to the mission’s success. As he hoped, only tense silence met his efforts.

Which was possibly why he was so startled when the grate disappeared above him; a hand shot out to grab him by the arm before he could force his hands to let go of the ladder. A heartbeat after he was grabbed, while still in midair, he felt the shock of a Silence wash over him, like being dropped into a pond of icemelt and wondering if he would ever be able to inhale again. In one smooth motion, the arms that yanked him from the ladder flipped and tossed him, so his back met the hard planks of the docks. His head whiplashed from the momentum, dashing his skull against the unforgiving wood.

Dazed, without magic, he could do nothing but gasp for a time, gulping air into his lungs and releasing it in helpless sobs. It had been so very long since he had been without magic, helpless, defenseless against the whims of the Templars…

The girl’s scream pierced the cloud of midnight silence, and also managed to cut through his disorientation. It was a rallying beacon to Anders; he clenched his teeth and rolled onto his side, easing himself onto his knees as he pulled his staff from its sling. _Leave it to a fucking Templar to assume a staff is useless without mana._

But then he took in the scene as he stood: four Templars surrounded the girl; three more were cutting down the Underground members like they were overgrown field grass; a single Templar stood off to the side, arms crossed, surveying the carnage. They had been sold out – it was the only explanation for such an organized retaliation. Even for a Grey Warden, he was hopelessly outmatched. He should run, should have left as soon as the healing was finished. _Oh, Fenris,_ he mourned. _Maker, please let Merrill_ – he trailed off as a Templar shouted, “Oi, that one’s not dead!”

And then time was meaningless; he bashed, stabbed, and swung with his staff, his body responding - clumsily, but still responding - in a way his mind couldn’t keep up with, thanks to the endless drills he endured with the Wardens. He was not a graceful fighter, nor a particularly good one; he was, however, a surprise to these arrogant, glorified prison guards. He had been trained to slice femorals and jugulars, to crush windpipes, shatter knees, and kick groins; anything to put distance between himself and a Darkspawn. Or, in this instance, a Templar, as if the terminology could somehow separate the two breeds of monster.

To his credit, two Templars were bleeding out, and a third was slowly turning purple above a collapsed trachea, before a plated fist to his gut knocked him to the ground and again stole the wind from his lungs.

 _I must have hit my head harder than I thought,_ his mind supplied in a daze, as faint blue and green lights flickered at the edge of his swirling vision. Then he heard screaming; then he heard a crash like an entire armor stand being rolled down the stairs. He focused on the sound. It _was_ an armor stand rolling down the dock’s stairs… no, it was a Templar, with a hole in the center of his chestplate that was just visible before the body slipped off the stairs of the docks and into the writhing blackness of the Waking Sea.

His eyes darted back, following the eerie blue glow, unwilling to hang his hopes on the word until – there, he was actually there - _Fenris._

And _Maker_ , the elf fought like a vengeful god. He was everywhere; leaping, pivoting, and ducking between swords like an animate willow branch, swinging Lethendralis in arcs that brought death to any within two spans of him. Three more Templars were down in the time it took Anders to recover from his awe. One continued to fight, and the last – presumably, the lieutenant - stood beside the sobbing, pregnant mage with his arms still crossed. 

In moments, the fourth man fell. Fenris turned from his most recent kill, facing the final Templar who had grabbed the girl around the back of her neck and shoved her in front of him. Anders choked back nausea as he watched the massive plated hand grip the young mage, much too reminiscent of a rottweiler worrying a rag doll. Again, he saw flickers of lights; Fenris’s brands lit up, and again he noticed pale green mixed in with the blue.

His heart dropped in his chest, seizing with fear when he heard the sound of plated footsteps ringing down the docks. _Fenris, RUN_ , he begged, but he was unable to form the thought into words. As Anders watched, the warrior nonchalantly scanned the new arrivals - seven more Templars jogging towards him - and held his sword out in front of him in a line perfectly perpendicular to his body. “Let the girl go,” he said in a chilling snarl.

The Templar at the business end of Fenris’s sword laughed. “You, friend, have chosen the wrong side.” In one smooth motion, the man pulled a belt knife and brought it to the mage's neck; the flesh of the girl’s throat seemed to melt away from the sharpness of the blade, and her hands leapt up as though they could somehow knit the ragged pieces back together, stem the spring of blood that gushed between her fingers. Her eyes were wailing, but she could only gurgle as her blood poured onto the docks.

“NO!!” Anders heard his horrified scream, as if observing the sound from afar. Moments before, he had finally realized what the green light was, and reached out to summon the stored mana from his wisp. Fenris was elbow deep in the chest of the Templar lieutenant by then; he released the corpse and whirled to face the oncoming lackeys. With the little mana he could recover, Anders’ first priority was to cast the elemental shield; it was not unheard of for Templars to somehow harness spirit, and he refused to lose a second charge that night.

The newly arrived Templars were fresh and had seen Fenris lay out their superior; they came at him in a coordinated rush, keeping him fenced in at close range where Lethendralis lost the advantage. Fenris never faltered, despite the blows that rained down on him. Weak though Anders was, he erected a barrier around the elf, flinging basic attacks from his staff before another trickle of mana returned. He sent out a weak chain of lightning, stunning the remaining Templars while Fenris rallied. 

The battle took on a rhythm; Fenris taking and delivering blows, Anders casting barriers when he could, using his staff’s weak attacks when he couldn’t.

And then, without warning, it was over. The sounds of fighting were replaced with creaking, waterlogged boards, flapping ropes, and the hum of the breeze over the water. An unintelligible noise wrenched out of him – a barked cry of relief mixed with a sob - when Fenris appeared next to him. “We must go. Now.”

They stumbled back into the sewers with only the ruined bodies of fifteen Templars, four members of the Mage Underground, and a lone, pregnant girl as witnesses.


	9. Recovery, and Fenris Engages in Mind Fuckery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this (US) Thanksgiving eve, I wanted to get a short post up and say a big THANK YOU to all who have been reading and commenting. I'm really, truly grateful to have people along for the ride. Y'all are a bright spot in what has otherwise been a cruel and peculiar clusterfuck of virus, murder hornets, fires, ventilators and general 2020 chicanery.

They were about 20 paces from the mansion’s wine cellar when Fenris collapsed. Fear for the elf brought with it a second wind, and Anders stumbled up too many stairs to his room, downed a lyrium potion, and fell twice on his way back in his hurry to heal the warrior.

Most of Fenris’s injuries were superficial, but the elf had lost a lot of blood from a moderately deep gash running from his hip to the inside of his thigh. _Apparently, Templars are also trained to go for the femoral,_ he thought through a stupor of worry, relief and weariness. His magic patched the wounds quickly and easily, but only rest would replenish Fenris’s blood supply.

The worst part was carrying the warrior up the stairs. Anders was tired, but worse, he was mortifyingly self-conscious of where he placed his hands. It was a strange thing. He had carried Hawke without such things even occurring to him, but somehow, laying hands on Fenris felt like a delicate line between helping and being invasive.

He had intermittently dozed in a nearby chair while Fenris slept, wanting to be nearby if anything changed, but a good night’s rest had remedied much of the warrior’s pallor. Or, it seemed to, in the few places that weren’t streaked in blood and dirt.

Anders now sat at the side of the bed, staring at the warrior. “You fucking idiot,” he mused tenderly. “You nearly died. _Again!_ ” He numbly dipped his cloth into a shallow basin, wrung it out, and dabbed at the caked blood and grime that covered Fenris’s face. He repeated the process several times until the basin’s water was crimson, then emptied the basin in the washstand and refilled it from the nearby pitcher. A quick spell warmed the water, and he again began to gently wash the warrior’s face.

Time had passed - the amount unnoticed and immaterial - when mossy green eyes flickered open, and Anders breathed out all his accumulated tension on a long, relieved sigh.

“You are a terrible bodyguard,” Fenris rasped.

Anders thanked every good spirit in existence as an unexpected laugh bubbled out of him. He pulled the cork from the waterskin he had left at hand, and lifted it to Fenris’s lips, slipping his arm under the warrior’s shoulders to help him swallow without choking.

After a few ginger sips, Fenris leaned back, and Anders withdrew his arm. He dipped the cloth in the warm water once again, wiping it down the elf’s temple. “I know.”

Fenris watched him for a moment, then raised a hand to clasp his wrist. “Mage,” he started, then fell silent. Despite his best intentions, Anders couldn’t look away from those penetrating green eyes. Fenris stared back, his gaze shifting from one eye to the other uncertainly. “I should thank you for…” he growled softly, but trailed off again.

Instead of finishing the cliffhanger, he released the mage’s captured wrist, threading his fingers through Anders’ hair as he pulled him closer. Softly, tentatively, the mage felt the warrior’s lips brush against his. Then Fenris pulled back, his gaze scanning Anders’ face apprehensively.

Anders couldn’t help himself. He twisted and leaned down, hypnotized, tilting his head to seal his lips against Fenris’s. This kiss wasn’t gentle or nervous; how could it be, when Anders felt like he was burning up from the inside. Anders needed to touch him, taste him, wanted to experience every inch of that form that had been driving him mad for months. He reached his hands up to feel Fenris’s face as his head bobbed with insistent, suckling kisses at the warrior’s mouth.

Anders parted his lips, aching for more access, more closeness, just _more_. His breath hitched and a shudder ran down his spine when Fenris’s tongue darted out to trace the inside of his upper lip; Fenris taking the initiative was so much more erotic than anything he had dreamed or fantasized.

He felt his hips buck slightly into the air as his tongue slid against the elf’s. “Maker,” he groaned into Fenris’s mouth, his lips moving against the warrior’s without breaking contact, “Oh Maker, Fenris, you taste good.”

Fenris shifted on the bed, pulling himself somewhat upright to gain some leverage as he pressed his torso more firmly against the mage. A deep, low rumble in the warrior’s chest poured out as a staccato growl from his mouth when he exhaled; the noise was driving Anders absolutely mad.

Anders pulled back to gently capture the warrior’s lower lip between his teeth, pulling it out before releasing it, then peppered it with small, furtive kisses. He stared at those lips. Traced the elf’s features upward. When he looked the other man in the eye, those olive eyes now black mirrors of his own lust, he felt a flicker of warning puncture the haze of all-consuming need. Desperate to ignore the real world for just one damn minute, he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, delirious in his desire to taste every inch of the elf’s receptive mouth.

And then his Maker-damned conscience resurfaced with alarm bells in full clangor. Anders whined, using every shred of his self-control to pull back. He could do nothing but pant for a few long moments, nearly overwhelmed by his urgent longing for the elf, before he finally dropped his head down in dismay. “Fenris…fuck. We... I can’t. I said I wouldn’t…wouldn’t take advantage of you, and I meant it…”

Anders looked up when Fenris pulled back, his hooded eyes suddenly full of suspicion. “You are perfectly capable of saying no, as you have previously demonstrated,” the warrior replied with that empty, inscrutable quality that he seemed so practiced in.

“No, that’s not what… no no no,” Anders replied, visibly cringing as he heard the four no’s leave his mouth. _Do better,_ he implored his tongue. “What I mean is, no, you’ve misunderstood. Trust me, Fenris, I _really_ want to.” The elf did not look placated. Wondering if he was going mad or just too numb to care if he risked his life a second time that night, he covered the elf’s hand with his own, gently guiding it to the painfully hard bulge in his pants. “I really, really, _really_ want to.”

The warrior’s eyes widened, but quickly grew hooded again as he ever-so-slightly palmed the rigid tent in Anders’ trousers. Anders stifled a full-throated moan, dampening it to a breathy whimper. With a sigh that carried the sum of his willpower, he released Fenris’s hand, almost sobbing from frustration. “But I can’t, knowing it could be the spell. It could be… _him…_ forcing you to want this.”

That seemed to resonate. With a frustrated groan, Fenris flopped back; his head hit the pillow, but Anders suspected he had avoided braining himself on the headboard by only the slimmest margin.

Fenris took a measured breath, eyes darting up to Anders and back down again. “You really are a terrible bodyguard.”

Anders slid down the side of the bed until he sat on the floor with his head tilted back against the mattress, still trying to regain some measure of control over his long-neglected body. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said. Fenris grunted.

Anders wondered if he should just leave, worried that anything else he said would just make the situation worse. However, it was easier to speak to the warrior in this position, without having to face him, and - Anders being Anders - his curiosity got the better of him. “May I ask… why did you follow me?”

“I was bored.”

“Oh, come on. What, did you think all us dirty mages and mage-sympathizers were going to sacrifice puppies to the Old Gods?”

“Yes.”

“That there might not be a Mage Underground and I was just sneaking out to play strip Diamondback?”

“Yes.”

“Were you thinking I would get lost and die of exposure in this maze of a city?”

“Of course.”

“Did you think I would get myself killed?”

Fenris paused, his voice low when it eventually rumbled out, “I did not think you would, but I also wanted to be sure.”

Anders sighed. “I guess that’s fair. To be honest, I was ready for a heated argument when I suggested this whole stupid plan. You surprised me, Fenris. I’m not sure I would have let it go so easily, were I the one putting my life at risk.”

“It was never about me,” Fenris replied coolly.

“What, then? Because I wanted to help a mage? Fenris, she was being raped, tortured! How could I -”

Fenris interrupted with a growl. “Did it not occur to you that maybe I was not worried that you put your life in danger for a _mage,_ but that you put your life in danger at all?”

Anders’ defenses crumpled under the weight of the implications contained in that question. “No,” he whispered. “That didn’t occur to me.”

The silence stretched long as Anders tried to wrap his head around Fenris’s words. He came at it from several angles, but repeatedly he ran into the same question. At length, he finally put voice to that question, a stupid, vulnerable, inflammatory question. “Why?”

Fenris was silent for long time. Anders waited. Some things couldn’t be rushed. “When you were describing that child’s situation,” Fenris said cautiously, picking each word with care, “you said she would ‘never be used by those _bastards’_ again.” He paused, and Anders felt a rustle in the mattress as the warrior turned his head towards the mage. “Shortly after, in just the same tone, you spoke of the commitment you made to helping me fight those _bastard_ slavers.”

Even as he recognized the defense mechanism, Anders quipped, “Ah, so it’s a pity thing – my limited vocabulary is truly a crippling burden.”

“Mage,” Fenris growled warningly. After a moment, he continued. “I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain. And yet, you have taken my cause as your own, to no personal benefit and despite numerous risks and inconveniences.”

Anders wanted to laugh, or cry. He knew it as soon as the words left Fenris’s mouth; he _did_ reserve a particular place in the Void for the Templars who had tormented him, and the slavers who had tormented Fenris. Yet, while there was nothing quite as intoxicating as the feeling of being seen - that his words and tone were of some import to the warrior - it was not Fenris’s cause that he had grown to care for. _It IS personal gain,_ he wanted to shout, _when I get to be near you._ But then, he could hardly admit his own selfishness in the face of such unexpectedly kind words.

“Thank you, Fenris,” he whispered instead, “for saying that.”

The warrior hummed, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling.

“And Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“I hope Danarius pays us a visit soon. I can’t _wait_ to help you repay him for all the misery he’s caused.” _And to see if this is all some curse-fueled dream I’m living in. Selfishly._

Fenris exhaled a little more sharply than usual – a full-bellied laugh by Fenris standards. “Then we agree."

“One more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Where is that bath you mentioned…?”

* * *

In spite of his repeated failures at learning anything about the curse, Anders had made some significant progress on protective measures; he couldn’t cure the disease, but he was getting better at managing the symptoms.

For one thing, the spell wisp had opened an entirely new realm of experimentation. He would never admit it aloud, but he had been staring at Fenris’s lyrium tattoos while trying to figure out how to extend the wisp’s protection without draining off more of his mana. There seemed to be diminishing returns on the wisp, such that siphoning half his mana into the wisp didn’t provide twice the duration as siphoning a quarter. Taking mana back from the wisp resulted in even greater loss. But then Fenris had inadvertently provided the solution simply by merit of being difficult to look away from.

The elf was not sufficiently impressed when Anders triumphantly handed him a faintly glowing vial of lyrium, but to be fair, Anders’ explanation had consisted of announcing “I did it!” and shoving the vial at him.

“You did…lyrium?” Fenris asked with a cocked eyebrow. “Was it laced with something? A stimulant, perhaps?” 

“It’s a spell wisp!” Anders enthused, almost-but-not-quite bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“In the lyrium?”

“Yes! It doesn’t need _my_ mana, it just needs a power source!”

Fenris looked at the vial uncomfortably. “Can it breathe in there? Does it breathe?” 

“No, silly. Wisps are like baby spirits, and spirits don’t breathe.”

His explanation didn’t seem to ease the elf’s consternation. “I was not aware you were surrounding me with demons, and I also do not condone child labor.”

Anders’ head tilted back as he released an exasperated noise. “Come ON, Fenris, this is huge!”

“It appears to be quite small.”

“The discovery! Fine. You want to argue semantics, then no, I am not surrounding you with demons. Wisps are spirits, and they are mindless, and it’s just the _one_ spirit. And no, it is _not_ child labor, because I was being metaphoric. Spirits are pure concepts – Justice, Compassion, Faith –“

“Rage, Desire, Pride…”

“Well, yes. No! Those spirits have been corrupted - by this world, by crossing the veil, or by their desire to cross the veil, or... GAH! You are impossible!” Anders stormed away, but came rushing back when Fenris called, “Don’t forget your wirium.” Anders snatched the vial back, shot him a dirty look, muttered ‘killjoy’, then stormed away again. If he had looked back, he would have seen the warrior turn his head and cover his mouth to stifle a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Microsoft Word suggested that I change the word “fucking” in the 5th paragraph of this chapter to “are fucking”. That is, Word thinks I should have gone with, “You are fucking idiot.” Had this been a more lighthearted chapter, I might have just gone with it for the lols. I’m curious as to whether people think that sounds more like a potty-mouthed caveman (or robot?), or like an insanely sheltered royal being supervised by a jaded butler (“What is this, Jeeves? What am I doing??” *Jeeves sighs* “You are fucking, idiot”).
> 
> That is all.


	10. Idos

Thus far, the wirium – honestly, the name had just stuck – was able to sustain the elemental shield for about 8 hours in a typical lyrium vial, but Anders anticipated that to decrease over time and wasn’t entirely sure of the rate. He also didn’t have the coin to be too liberal with lyrium potions, and so he still spent most of his time in the mansion. The biggest difference was that now he was free to work shifts at the clinic without dragging Fenris along.

Anders was also convinced that wisps could store many different types of spells, but he hadn’t had much time to investigate now that he could devote time to healing again. It was a comfort to slip back into the routines of the clinic - healing was familiar, he was good at it, and the work was almost entirely unambiguous; there was rarely a time when Anders had to weigh responsibilities or choose between equally tenebrous paths in the trenches of Darktown.

And yet, when he wasn’t preoccupied with a patient’s hemorrhaging, vomiting, or any of the other plethora of ways that bodies managed to expel fluid, a niggling part of him wondered if he was fighting the wrong fight. Magical research, like the wirium, could potentially lead to breakthrough healing techniques and cures that might save thousands more lives than his exhausting work at the clinic did.

Perhaps a robust set of healing techniques would even make southern lands more tolerant of mages; after all, it was difficult to hate the person who saved your dad’s leg or your niece’s life, as the loyalty of Darktown proved.

And then the pessimism would set in. The Chantry would never allow it. Why else would arcane research be such a taboo? And, practically speaking, why would they willingly diminish their order by allowing Circles to send healers out en masse to communities? Without widespread fear and hatred, the Circle lost its purpose and its power, plain and simple.

It was during one of these mental circle jerks, while his hands wove a rote healing spell over a bleeding Carta member, that Anders decided he needed a hobby. Preferably a physical one, and definitely one that didn’t have any moral or philosophical components.

As a child, he had started to pick up many of the skills that accompany life in a small village; he had a very rudimentary understanding of farming techniques, animal husbandry, carpentry, cooking and fishing. Literally none of which was much help in the sewers of Kirkwall.

He thought about it the entire trip back to the mansion, but when he emerged from the door at the top of the cellar stairs, Fenris again became his unwitting muse.

The warrior was placing the last of the scavenged tiles in the corner of the main hall, and had apparently left a bucket of gypsum mortar just out of reach. As Anders watched him stretch for the handle, he was immediately reminded of the striking pose Fenris had cut on the beach when the mage had caught a glimpse of his training routine. The mage shook his head as if to rattle the image of a half-naked Fenris from his thoughts.

“You are staring.”

“I was thinking!”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

Anders held up his hands in forfeit. “You’re right. I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor, and I was trying to decide how to ask you.”

Fenris sat back on his heels and looked up, apparently deciding that he was going to have to engage in this conversation after all. “By asking.”

“Ok… here it goes. I was wondering if you would be willing to teach me your training regimen. I heard you tell Aveline something about not wanting to ‘inflict’ your fighting techniques on the guard, but I was hoping that maybe just the practice, or uh, warmup thing might be alright? “Forms”, I believe is the term Hawke used.”

Fenris’s eyebrows immediately drew down in suspicion, and Anders pre-emptively blurted, “I saw you, that day on the beach. Before the whole… ‘test Fenris for weakness’ situation. I mean, I wasn’t _spying_ on you – I was washing a kettle and when I turned around you were there. I..." Anders cleared his throat, "noticed, and then I left.”

 _Well, that went swimmingly_ , Anders groaned inwardly.

“You… noticed.” Fenris replied blandly.

“Yes,” he replied. He tried to leave it at that, but predictably cracked under the weight of the warrior’s silent regard.

“Yes, Fenris, okay? I _noticed_ the half-naked elf holding a giant-ass sword majestically over the sand like an Adonis. And then I walked away, because I didn’t think you’d appreciate an audience.”

Anders was running through a mental plan for how to flee the city and erase this whole conversation from his memory when the warrior -chuckled-. _Is this some kind of shame-stroke? Am I stroking out right now?_

Fenris stood and closed the distance between them in a few silent paces. Anders watched, hypnotized, as the elf reached out and plucked a feather from Anders’ overcoat. With a strangely smug sigh, Fenris said, “I should apologize. Your feathers, mage… they are so easily ruffled.”

Anders was speechless. _He’s provoking me on purpose? That bastard!_

The warrior turned and retrieved a half-empty bottle of wine from a nearby table, took a long draught, and replaced it thoughtfully. “Despite how deeply I would enjoy betraying the state and military secrets of Tevinter, I refused to teach Aveline’s men because Tevinter fighting tactics are inferior. The army is based on the premise that Magisters occasionally need a body in front of them, not on any desire to perfect martial combat.”

Fenris paused, taking another long pull from the wine bottle. He set it down and slowly looked up at the mage. “Remove the magic, dracolisks, Juggernauts and elephants from Tevinter, and the remaining military would not be sufficient to defend an infirm fish wife from her estranged, impotent husband.”

Anders couldn’t help but chortle at the mental imagery. “So, that’s not where you learned the forms, then?”

“No. That, and… much more, I learned from the Fog Warriors. Would you like to hear the story?”

Anders’ warm smile was genuine, and though he heard himself say, “I really would,” he couldn’t ignore the clenching pressure in his chest, the icy fingers of a deeply rooted self-preservation instinct that didn’t fully believe Fenris was willingly talking to him, willing to open up a little – to _him_.

Fenris watched him for a moment, then leaned against the trestle table, hand wrapped distractedly around the neck of the wine bottle. “The Imperium and the Qunari have clashed over the island of Seheron since the Steel Age, and yet, despite the devastation to their homeland, some native people have managed to survive. Unwilling to bow to either invading force, these people developed highly trained militia units, and wage guerrilla warfare on their occupiers. The invading forces call these rebels the Fog Warriors.”

Anders found himself sliding slowly down the wall until he was sitting - bewitched, in spite of himself, by the timbre and cadence of Fenris’s storytelling voice. He listened as Fenris described his rescue of and subsequent abandonment by Danarius, of the Fog Warrior's rescue, of his time with them and his later slaughter of them. The mage kept his face carefully neutral throughout; to him, the outcome seemed inevitable, not a choice made of free will, but he knew the warrior did not appreciate coddling.

“I’ve never spoken about what happened. To anyone. I’ve… never wanted to.” Fenris finished, his eyes downcast as though staring into a great abyss.

“Too much wine?” Anders asked, the levity in his voice only slightly strained.

Fenris looked up. “Let’s just say you’ve earned my respect.”

Anders did not know how to respond other than with the grateful smile he couldn’t suppress anyways; he felt his forehead wrinkle, eyebrows slant as the words stirred something deep inside him. He was beginning to understand why Fenris was often quiet. The warrior didn’t rush to fill silence, but only spoke when words were the best he could offer. Right now, words were woefully inadequate.

“The practice routine was a gift from the Fog Warriors, one of many.” Fenris added. “And yes, I will teach you.”

* * *

“You know, it might help if you offered some, I don’t know… instruction?” Anders grumbled. The warrior ignored the mage’s sass, leading him up from the bowels of the mansion after what felt, to Anders, like a sunrise flogging.

Earlier that morning – if morning could be used to describe the pre-dawn hours that seemed indistinguishable from _night_ in Anders’ mind – Fenris had given his door a vicious beating, as though it had personally offended the warrior. Anders woke with a barrier spell half-formed in his hands, heart thundering in his chest like a war drum. When he eventually gathered the wherewithal to orient himself to person and place, he grumbled with increasing feist, “All right, all _right!_ I’m awake!”

“Main hall,” the warrior growled, muffled through the door - though at least the senseless violence against the architecture had ceased.

Anders rolled out of bed, grumping at the cold air and the frigid stone floor and the dark windows and - _oh, that’s right, I can –_ lit a blazing fire in the hearth with a flick of his wrist. Getting dressed was immediately more pleasant, and soon he started to actually look forward to his first day of a new hobby as he splashed some water on his face. He took a nibble of foxmint for the weak, tea-like stimulant effect and its much more pronounced impact on his morning dragon breath.

And then he headed down to the main hall, where Fenris was standing impatiently between the two odd tiki statues that stood guard just inside the curved banisters of the mirrored staircases. Anders watched as Fenris pressed against a column on the left, the twin of another column that stood on the other side of a 4-foot span of bare wall that supported the landing between the two staircases.

The wall looked suspicious the minute he saw Fenris press against the column – very secret doorway-esque - and his suspicions were confirmed when the wall gave a little shiver and then swung away a few inches, as if released from a hidden catch.

He followed Fenris as the warrior pressed the doorway open a little wider, then descended down a flight of stone steps. When they emerged into the secret lair, Anders looked about, dumbfounded.

The walls were facades of white marble, intricately carved to look like arches, with angular baseboards and crown molding cast of a dull, black metal. At regular intervals along the walls were small shelves, each holding some sort of light source that was hidden behind bronze shades in a peculiar shape, like a pointed oval, or a lateral half of a pea pod. Across the ceiling were strung large canopies of white fabric, and all together, it gave the room the appearance of being an airy, open temple – despite the fact that it was smaller than the main hall, and entirely underground. 

A marble half-wall, several feet tall, ran the entire length of the wall opposite the staircase, set back from the far wall by a few paces; it appeared to be a kind of built-in pond, a reservoir for the water spilling from a fountain in the shape of a black dragon head. Other than this, and two large hearths set into the left and right walls, the room was entirely empty.

“What…is this?” Anders asked in a low voice, feeling as though he were somehow trespassing.

“I do not know. I stumbled upon it soon after I first found the wine cellar.” Anders smirked at the mental image of Fenris drunkenly bracing against walls and ‘stumbling upon’ the murphy door latch. “I like the open space and privacy to practice, and I find the sound of running water meditative.”

Fenris then closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, they were less focused. “For now, just try to follow along,” Fenris said, his voice soft yet gritty, like dark velvet being rubbed the wrong way.

And then the warrior began to move in a series of sinuous, flowing movements that might have looked more like the steps of a dance were it not for their glacially slow pace. Anders was immediately brought back to the striking visage on the beach, and had to shake his head a little to recall himself to the task at hand; he was here to learn, not be a lecher.

The movements that had seemed so simple when watching Fenris turned out to be diabolically difficult in practice. Mirroring the general stances and trying to recreate the flowing movements was difficult enough, as Anders frequently found himself off balance or with his weight on the wrong foot to complete the next motion in the sequence. What seemed more baffling to Anders were the tiny details, the specific arc and flow of the hands, the flexing of toes.

It could not have been 30 minutes that passed before Anders felt his muscles shaking from holding each position for such prolonged periods. When he began to recognize movements from earlier, he realized that they were repeating a sequence and was sorely tempted to give up.

By the end of the second set, Anders was a quivering mess. He was sore in muscles he hadn’t previously known existed. He snuck a glance at Fenris’s face, disgusted to find that the warrior looked placid and entirely unaware of the struggling mage.

After the third repetition, Anders left his spot in the center of the room and stumbled over to the reservoir. He dunked his head into the pool for a brief moment, gave a wild shake of his head that sent droplets flying, and sunk down onto the low wall. Fenris had stopped, and after again closing his eyes and breathing, the warrior turned to look at the mage, his expression carefully neutral.

“How,” Anders panted, “How many… times… do you usually... do that?”

“Three or four, typically.” Fenris paused. “You splashed me.” 

Anders had always felt rather fit for a mage, given his numerous experiences on the lam from the Circle, not to mention his training with the Wardens. He did not feel fit right now. He felt like a squishy sack of bones supported by wet noodles. “Sorry. It’s hot down here, no?”

As if reading his thoughts, Fenris supplied, “It gets easier with practice.” He then added casually, “You will be quite sore later.”

 _Oh, goody,_ Anders thought.

“You know, it might help if you offered some, I don’t know… instruction?” Anders grumbled. Fenris responded flatly, “After a week or two, we can begin to correct your form. For now, you need to build strength before you can be expected to execute each move properly.” Anders frowned, and Fenris added, “That was not a criticism. Most new recruits did not make it through three cycles.”

Idos, Fenris explained, was a Tevene word meaning something loosely translated as ‘the tangible form of’. The Idos had 33 movements, each blending seamlessly into the next with unique bridge forms. The movements taught basic lessons in balance, blocking, dodging and attacking, and additionally trained the body’s musculature to be resilient without the added bulk of working specific muscle groups individually.

Anders discovered perhaps the only upshot of this whole ‘I need a hobby’ thing – which he so desperately regretted at the moment - when he nearly dropped the mug of tea he had set about brewing as soon as they emerged from the basement.

With a sidelong glance at the mage, Fenris had wondered aloud, “Why do you not heal yourself?”

Anders huffed. “I don’t need to heal every little ache and pain, Fenris. Besides, it defeats the purpose; muscles need to break down to rebuild stronger. If I heal the pain away, it would be like the damage was never done, and they will not be forced to adapt.”

Fenris gave him a contemplative look, then paced over and took the mage’s hand. With a forceful press of the warrior’s thumb, Fenris dug into the meaty flesh between Anders’ thumb and palm. At first, the pain was so acute it took Anders’ breath away. _What fresh torture is this_ he babbled in his head, seriously considering yanking his hand away. In moments, however, he felt the pain in his palm lessen, and then – miraculously – he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulder begin to relax as well. Soon he could hold his tea without shaking, and though he still hurt all over, it was more of a dull throb than a sharp, stinging burn.

Anders stared at his palm when Fenris let it go. “What…? How did…? Where did you…?

Fenris smirked. “Ah. So, you do not know _everything_ about healing. I find that… gratifying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say “E-dose”, but meh, whatever works. Tevene is basically just Latin, right?
> 
> Picture a gaggle of middle-schoolers picking on the weakest kid in gym class. Now use that voice to make them say “Aww, little Jimmy needs lyrium. You know. “Aww, widdle Jimmy needs wyrium.” That’s how I pronounce ‘wirium’ in my head each time, and I find it genuinely delightful to do it in Fenris’s voice.


	11. The Downward Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-TW: This chapter contains a canonical, non-explicit character death (Pol, from Merrill's Act II companion quest), and portrays anxiety and depressive symptoms.

_Izzy had the right of this one,_ Anders thought bitterly. Alarm bells had been ringing in his head since Hawke had first announced this mission, and yet, here he was, covered in the various viscera of corpses and pony-sized spiders.

Hawke had been honest about the goal of this mission – she always was, to her credit – but had been a little heavier on the guilt than usual to convince the crew to assist Merrill. Even with the added guilt trip, Izzy had summarily refused to participate in a mission that, as she saw it, would ‘inevitably lead to crushing the soul of the last optimist left in Kirkwall’. 

Anders refused on the grounds of blood magic. Fenris had refused on the grounds of demons and blood magic. Hawke had rejoined with “Karl. Hadriana.”

And, truly, that was the magic Hawke brought to the group. It wasn’t just her take-charge leadership style, or her charisma, but the fact that she managed to ensure everyone would accept missions they disagreed with by the tacit understanding that each member could in turn ask for her help when they needed it. It was a convoluted glue of loot, camaraderie, quid pro quo and Hawke’s charisma that held the group together. 

And yet, it was effective enough for Anders to find himself deep in the belly of a mountain rumored to be an ancient elven burial ground, up to his armpits in spiders, on a mission to find and slay an ancient rock-skinned guardian-gone-murderer in order to help Merrill use blood magic on a broken mirror.

The cherry on the cowpie was a string of failures with his wirium experiments. He remembered all too well that Merrill’s magic could have a painful effect on Fenris’s lyrium tattoos and had unequivocally resolved to keep a buffer between them. He had attempted to modify the wirium to sustain a barrier spell, but his efforts thus far had been stymied. He couldn’t figure out why - there was very little substantive difference between an elemental shield and a barrier – but the spell either fizzled or came out as a tiny little fist-sized barrier.

So, instead, he had to recast the barrier each time it dissolved; all told, it resulted in a constant anxiety - as if he was always about to cast something too late - stemming from divided attention as well as gaps in coverage. Perhaps the only silver lining was that no one had commented on the near-perpetual barrier, at least thus far. 

Suffice it to say, he was not in the best state of mind to have a thoughtful, empathetic discussion with Merrill, and yet the diminutive Dalish woman seemed determined to strike up a conversation. After several dead-end comments on his former cat and his current feathered coat, she went for the nuclear option.

“Why is it alright for you? The demon, I mean. You have made it very clear that you disapprove of what I’ve done to restore the Eluvian, but how can it be any different than what you have done for the sake of the Circle mages?”

“Because Justice is not a demon,” Anders said through gritted teeth.

“Anders... There's no such thing as a good spirit. There never was.”

“I can’t believe you, of all people, would say that. I should think that the Dalish would be the least likely to spout the same old Chantry bullshit. You know, those Exalted Marches and all…”

“My people see spirits as the denizens of another land; they are different from one another, just like you and Hawke and Isabela are humans but not the same. But… all spirits are dangerous.”

Anders took a deep breath. He tried to find a calm, reasonable place from which to respond to that comment. Yet, even as he started speaking, he knew that something about the other mage was provoking a disproportionate response in him. “You know what the worst part of this whole shit show is, Merrill? It’s that you are doing it to learn about ancient elven history, when there is a near-infinite amount of knowledge in the world, today, freely available, that you don’t seem to give a shit about learning. Did you somehow not realize that you are talking to a _spirit healer_? What do you think that means? That I heal with _pizazz_?”

When Merrill didn’t reply, he continued mercilessly, “It means that benevolent spirits – _good_ spirits - are offering their services on my behalf to restore and preserve life. They are not dangerous, Merrill, _you_ are dangerous, because you accept risks without understanding the consequences.”

Softly, and looking more rattled than Anders had previously seen the First, she replied, “I understood the dangers, Anders, and if I had any other choices, I’d take them. No one else will help me.”

“Which proves my point! Look, I understand devotion to a cause - believe me, I do. But ask yourself this: Do you think your Keeper doesn’t want to regain her lost history? Or your clan? Why don’t they help you? It’s because the risk you pose as an abomination is infinitely greater than the reward of gaining that knowledge. The same is true with your blood magic.”

“No! You sound just like everybody else - you just condemn whatever you don’t understand. Blood magic is just magic if used properly.”

“Fine, let’s say that’s true. And if so, why use it instead of other magic? Because you need more power. And once you start down that road, once you start pursuing power to achieve a goal, you put everyone around you at risk. The truth is, Merrill, people are fallible. No one should have that much power. Because even if you somehow manage to avoid being corrupted by it, eventually you’ll make a tiny mistake and others – not you - will pay for it.”

“Stop it, you’re scaring me.”

“That’s the point.” 

Merrill was silent for a long time. Giant spiders appeared, attacked, and died. No one seemed inclined to break the heavy silence.

“You’re not angry at me. You’re angry at yourself,” Merrill finally ventured, her usual chirpy lilt now cold and weighty.

Anders had been guilt-spiraling over that precise issue when it became apparent how sensitive this topic was for him. He sighed, “No. I’m not angry at myself or at you. I _am_ you. Or, what you could become. Merrill, I nearly killed an innocent girl!”

He sighed, truly sick of this conversation. “I’m not questioning your motivations – everyone should be free to do what they think is right. I _am_ saying that it’s a mistake to go it alone. If you ignore the advice of people who care for you - and those who have been where you are now - you’ll be the next monster threatening little girls.”

Anders continued to fight, heal, and maintain a barrier over Fenris, but it was clumsy, mechanical. He was more than a little worried that neither Hawke nor Fenris had made any comment during his entire tirade. Hawke was usually quick to defend a companion that was drawing too much ire from the party, and Fenris had never before missed an opportunity to admonish either mage.

In addition, his mind was vainly trying to sort through the riot of thoughts the conversation had stirred up. Problem was, his usual analytical acumen was crippled by the anxiety this mission had inspired; his thoughts, Justice’s thoughts, Merrill’s words - they all jumbled inside and sat there, like a 90-pound mabari sitting on his chest.

And then the party came across a young elven man, who bolted away from Merrill as soon as he recognized her, screaming, “Don’t you know what she is??” as he ran. Anders’ mind supplied, bitterly, _a practitioner of blood magic. A soon-to-be abomination. A mage._

* * *

The varterral died in the end, but it was a much narrower victory than he was comfortable with. Every member of the party was still sporting minor wounds, as Anders had not thought to bring additional lyrium potions to compensate for his perpetual barrier on Fenris; if the fight had not ended when it did, he would have had to relinquish control to Justice… Vengeance. After the rancorous conversation with Merrill, that was the last thing he wanted.

Merrill rushed to the body of the young man that had fled from her as a rabbit flees the wolf. “Maybe it’s not too late! Anders, you can save him, can’t you?” Merrill pleaded, kneeling over the corpse of her former clan-mate.

Even from a distance, Anders could see that the boy’s skin was grey and slack. “I’m… I’m sorry, Merrill. He’s gone.”

The would-be Keeper covered her face and wept, her grief filling the large stone cavern with echoing sobs. “Why did you run? You shouldn’t have run…”

“Maybe he was thinking, “Ahh! Blood mage!” Hawke teased, though her tone was gentle. Merrill looked up at her with eyes full of tears and betrayal, and Hawke coughed and stepped back. “Uh, hey, do you need a minute? We’ll wait for you just outside.”

“Smooth,” Anders hissed as soon as they exited the cavern.

“Well, what was I supposed to say? Maker, I’ve never seen Merrill cry before. I had to either crack a joke or hug her, and I was worried that if I hugged her, we’d technically be engaged by Dalish custom…” Hawke rationalized.

“But while she’s literally crying over the boy who died to get away from her? I mean, jeez, it’s –“

“Don’t you dare,” Hawke interrupted angrily. “You have been harder on her than anyone – hell, I didn’t even know you had that in you, Anders. I once told Aveline that I had met plants who were more vicious than you, but I guess I’ll have to retire that one.” Hawke took a few steps back to the entry of the cavern, peeking in on the still-wailing First. “Besides,” she added more softly as she turned back around to face Anders, “I can’t think of a better time to point all that out than when she’s looking directly at the consequences.”

For the first time since they entered the varterral’s hunting grounds, Fenris spoke up. “Hawke is right, in this. Grief can be a powerful force for change. It is a cruelty to highlight her role in the matter - but is better than the pain she will experience later if she does not heed your warning.”

Anders sighed, resigned. It was true that certain events could be powerful catalysts for change; one of the few tomes he had managed to find that was written by a spirit healer called them liminal moments, or boundary experiences. There were, the tome said, hundreds of these potentially transformational moments – births or deaths, birthdays and anniversaries, a new romance or a sudden windfall or a serious illness, to name a few – but the majority slipped away uneventfully because people, in general, preferred comfortable stability to the risk of change.

“Fine. I realize I can’t exactly throw stones here, but I also don’t think it’s something to make light of. Say what you need to say, but please, Hawke, no more jokes?” 

The group fell silent as Merrill emerged from the cavern, eyes red and downcast, still sniffling. They made the winding journey out of the hunting grounds without incident, emerging from the caverns into the fresh air and overcast skies above Sundermount. It was then that the Dalish mage, once again, reached out for comfort. “I would never hurt my clan. Everything I do, I do it for them. But the way they were looking at me…and then Pol runs from me, like I’m some kind of monster…”

“You are a monster,” Fenris replied, though his tone was not nearly as bitter as the words.

Anders couldn’t help himself. “No, that’s not entirely fair. But if you keep going down this path, you will be.”

“If I had any other choices, I'd take them,” Merrill replied defensively.

“You have choices! You always had choices! Stop using blood magic. Get rid of that damned mirror,” Anders argued.

“Oh, in that case, I will head back to Kirkwall and throw it away, right after you abandon the plight of the Circle mages.”

“That’s different.”

“How? How is it different?” Merrill cried.

“Because Justice is not a demon. If anything, he was the one who made me start thinking of other people and not just myself.”

 _No,_ he chided himself, _the whole truth._ “And… because no one was there to stop me. Maybe it’s the Taint, or maybe it’s just me, but I’m the one corrupting Justice, Merrill. He’s the good one, not me. And I wish someone had cared as much as your Keeper seems to, because I didn’t know what I was doing, despite how much I thought I did.”

With that, Anders turned and headed up the other fork in the path, leading up the mountain. He called over his shoulder for the group to go on without him.

* * *

He stared out over the terrain, his thoughts momentarily quieted by how oddly beautiful it was from up here. This far removed from the squalor and the pain and the suffering, all Anders could see was the savage beauty of the Free Marches.

Naturally, it didn’t last. All too soon, his thoughts intruded once again, and he stared at the landscape before him without seeing it.

His thoughts went in circles, much like an Anderfels hound chasing its tail and just as productive. Was he any different than Merrill? Why had he drawn the line at blood magic, but not spirits? What was he willing to sacrifice for the Circle mages? What if freed mages took dangerous risks to accomplish their own unique dreams and goals, just as Merrill seemed to be doing? Would the consequences ultimately be his responsibility, if he was the proximal cause for their freedom? Or did the results belong to the mages themselves? Or to Justice? Vengeance? 

_I wonder if other people do this… if it’s normal to think in circles until it seems like nothing is pure, nothing is sacred, and hope feels naïve and happiness feels dangerous because it will trick you into giving up something that you need to survive the bad times…_

He recognized the catastrophizing, and he knew it would pass, but it didn’t make him feel better. It felt like trying to understand something buried at the bottom of an ocean, but he was too weak to spend enough time beneath the surface to figure it out. Like, if he didn’t have to go back up for air, he could find something true in those dark places, truth that eluded him when he walked on dry ground as man was ordained to.

A shadow appeared beside his, stretching down the hill that sloped gently away from the boulder he was perched on. He startled, swiveling, only to realize that of _course_ it was Fenris; no one else could sneak up on him like that. Anders felt his shoulders hunch forward defensively as he turned back to face the scenery.

The warrior didn’t say anything, didn’t sit down; he just stood there, a few steps to the side and behind Anders’ seat on the rock.

“Go on, Fenris, say whatever it is you’re going to say.”

Anders couldn’t see the elf’s face, but he suspected it was no loss. It wasn’t as if Anders was particularly good at distinguishing one shuttered expression from another.

“I did not come here to talk,” Fenris replied.

“Yeah, you didn’t seem to have much to say earlier, either.”

“I did not have to say much. You said it all.”

Anders laughed, a bitter sound that rang in his ears so that, when the echo faded, it seemed to alter the quality of the silence in the otherwise peaceful overlook. “Surprisingly, I think fighting with you was preferable to… whatever today was.” He looked down, then shifted to brace his chin on a palm. “Fighting with myself is rather tiring. I’m not sure how you put up with it all those years.”

Fenris took a breath, as if he were about to reply, but apparently decided against it. Instead, the warrior marched east, disappearing silently into the brush where the trees pressed most closely on the clearing. He reappeared a minute later with a large tree limb, maybe 6 feet long, off some unlucky evergreen. After clearing the smaller branches from the long, straight stave, he re-sheathed Lethendralis, unbuckled the sheath, and propped both against the rock Anders sat on.

Anders watched the scene play out with furrowed brows, his interest piqued. The warrior scanned the clearing as he hefted the makeshift quarterstaff, then turned his penetrating gaze on Anders. “If you wish to fight, then let us fight.”

Anders looked at Fenris, down at the staff, then back up at Fenris. “I was being sardonic, or hyperbolic, or… something. I don’t actually want to fight you, Fenris.”

“I agreed to pass on what I was taught by the Fog Warriors. If you no longer wish to learn, however, I can accept that.”

Exasperated, Anders shook his head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t be obtuse on purpose. What are you getting at, Fenris? Do you want me to see how weak I am in a fight without magic? Do you think I need to be punished for being a hypocrite?”

“I think you are not as good a mind reader as you seem to believe,” Fenris said flatly. The elf took a few steps away from the sloping hill, then took up a defensive stance, legs slightly apart, holding the staff across his body at a 45-degree angle. “Now come, let me see this Warden training you purport to have.”

Anders could think of a dozen reasons why this was a bad idea and even worse timing, but he feared that the prickly elf might never offer the opportunity again if he declined now. His whole body felt lethargic, though the inertia likely came from spending the day wound as tightly as a Seneschal, not from any true exertion. Anders sighed, but stood from the rock and pulled his staff from his back.

As soon as Anders held his staff at the ready, Fenris lunged with a downward strike from his staff, the upper half whipping down to crack against Anders’ left shoulder; in less time than it took for Anders to register the pain, the elf shifted his weight to his back foot, spinning his trunk as he thwacked the lower half of the staff into the back of Anders’ right knee. The mage crumpled like laundry fallen from a line.

“Ow! What the hell, Fenris? I wasn’t ready for… that.”

“The easiest fight is the one your opponent is unprepared for.”

Fenris took a few paces back and resumed his stance, while Anders looked up at him mutely. At length, the mage pulled himself up, bristling with embarrassment, but unwilling to fall so easily twice.

As soon as he held his staff up, Fenris again struck at him like a snake, repeating the same high lunge as he did previously. This time, Anders let his muscle memory guide him through the block, and then his foreleg was stepping back to avoid the spin. But Fenris didn’t spin this time, or, he started, but then arced the staff to sweep up, extending his arms so the staff walloped Anders across the right flank. Anders tried to sidestep when he saw the trajectory change, but by then Fenris had already tipped his staff like an inhumanly fast see-saw so the other side met his left ankle and once again sent him sprawling.

This time, Anders didn’t pull himself to his feet; he leapt up, angry. This time, he attacked first. He moved in with the same high lunge that Fenris had used, which the warrior effortlessly blocked. This time, he followed it up with a side strike that - as he had hoped - caused Fenris to spin to his left, where Anders was waiting to drive the butt of his staff into the elf’s chest like he was wielding a giant pool cue.

And yet, somehow, the elf wasn’t there when his staff jumped forward; the warrior flowed into a tilting pivot and brought his staff around to whack Anders from behind, overbalancing the mage until he once again landed in the turf.

Anders was frustrated. He was not accustomed to being so bad at anything. He hated looking weak in front of Fenris.

Paradoxically, it was that frustration, probably mixed with the adrenaline of sparring, that triggered his Circle-ingrained instinct to slow down and analyze a situation.

He was trying to prove something to Fenris; that was the problem. He wanted the elf to, what, be impressed? To hurt him? To give up on teaching him so there wouldn’t be a foolish glimmer of hope? Whatever the cause, that was preventing him from using the basic skills he learned from his combat drills with the Wardens, and basic skills were better than… whatever he was doing now.

Anders stood again, held his staff out, and tried not to think. He stayed on his feet a little longer each bout thereafter, but mostly because Fenris was using roughly the same sequence of attacks and blocks each time. Anders had no idea how long they sparred.

After yet another tumble, Fenris reached a hand down to assist him up with a simple, “That is enough for today.”

Anders was gasping for air, and felt each of the small pains peppered all over his body as he used Fenris’s assistance to stand. He hadn’t landed a single blow. Yet, oddly, he felt energized, lighter somehow.

Fenris paced back to the rock and re-strapped Lethendralis across his back, looking exactly as alert and unruffled as he had that morning - before the spiders, before the varterral, before the sparring; in fact, the only difference seemed to be the addition of splattered gore to his wardrobe.

Anders was just beginning to wonder what other uses the warrior’s stamina might be put to when the elf interrupted his lewd thoughts. “You are at an advantage; most opponents will not expect a mage to be physically capable of handling themselves in close combat. Also, you do not seem to have many bad habits, and you can control your emotions when needed. I believe you are teachable.”

Anders stared, unsure how to respond to the underwhelming compliment. “Uh, thanks? I don’t know how you could tell, considering how much time I spent getting familiar with the ground.” He paused, looking over to see the faintest glimmer of a lopsided grin flicker over the warrior’s lips at his words. He made a point of facing Fenris before saying, “Look, I… thanks, Fenris. I don’t know how or why, but this was exactly what I needed.”

Fenris gave a quick nod, “Focusing on something outside yourself is one way to stop fighting with yourself.” He jerked his chin at the path back to the city. “Merrill and Hawke have likely finished their business with the Dalish. Are you ready to leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I know. This was a rough one. BAMF Anders will be making a comeback shortly, I promise!!
> 
> I nearly cut this chapter because, honestly, it's a bit of a bummer. I left it in because part of what I love about DA, and Fenders in particular, is the grit, the grey, the dark edges. At this point in the game, Anders is experiencing some pretty significant Vengeance impacts, and dealing with depression/anxiety/paranoia that eventually leads to him losing all sense of perspective in Act III. 
> 
> Partially, this chapter is a setup to insight and connection when, in-game, Anders has only tunnel-vision and isolation. The fact that he will tell a romanced Hawke how worried he is about (what he assumes to be) his corruption of Justice makes me think that he would be willing to consider other options under the right circumstances. A lot of the dialogue in this chapter was pulled from various banters; together, instead of strung out, I think it makes a clearer case for this.
> 
> I also think a believable Fenders needs to surmount a fair number of obstacles; not, like, stupid misunderstandings, but legitimate differences in perspective and the slow, painstaking process of building trust. In this case, Anders gets to express some of his frustrations in a less-vulnerable way (i.e., on poor Merrill), while Fenris takes a small step towards trying to reconcile his past and present while also being supportive in the limited ways he knows how. These boys are so prickly - they insisted on taking their time :/ 
> 
> I also kinda feel bad for dumping on Merrill so much. In many ways, she and Anders are remarkably similar. I eventually decided that this story belonged to Fenders, and it was tangential to highlight all her ambiguity and shades of grey _on top_ of Anders' own conflicted thoughts...so, I apologize to all the Merrill fans I inadvertently offended here! 
> 
> Lastly - for those of you who are just like "Come ON!!! FUCK ALREADY!!!"... if all goes well, you will get your fill of raunchy Fenders shenanigans sometime next weekend ^.^


	12. Correcting False Conclusions (AKA Hello Deer)

The descent down Sundermount was scenic, and the two walked for a time in a silence that felt surprisingly amicable. Anders’ mind no longer felt like a bowstring, and his thoughts were no longer spiraling.

 _Did he know that sparring would help? Is that why he came to find me? Or was it because I’m the one who can cast the shield?_ Anders wondered absently, pleased to find that the thoughts didn’t hold as much power over him as they might have a scant few hours ago.

Regardless of whether Fenris had known or intended it, the physical activity helped.

Anders kept his eyes on the trail, certain that his ego could not stand to fall in Fenris’s presence one more time that day. He was thinking that he didn’t mind walking in silence beside the warrior when Fenris asked softly, “The barriers. Were they because of what I told you about the witch’s magic?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t do a great job of it; I couldn’t make a wirium barrier work properly, and it… has been a trying day. For all of us, I suppose. It’s actually pretty rare for anything to mess with my head on a mission, but something about this one has had me on the back foot all day.”

Fenris was slow to respond. “I did not ask you to do that.”

Anders furrowed his brows, unsure if Fenris was feeling guilty, pitied, or angry at his presumption. “I probably should have asked you. Did I overstep?”

“I do not know. It… depends on your motivation.”

“My motivation? Uh, to keep you from feeling like you were ‘swimming through an ocean of dull blades’, if I recall correctly.”

“And nothing else?”

“No, Fenris, nothing else. Maker. I think preventing pain is a worthy goal in itself, don’t you?” 

The warrior fell silent for a long time - longer than his typical thoughtful pauses, anyways. When he spoke at last, he was looking into the far distance and his tone was distracted, like he was heeding two conversations at once. “You are either an uncommonly honorable mage, or you are meticulous and disciplined enough to outmatch a fair majority of Magisters.”

Anders rolled his eyes, more for his own benefit than the suspicious warrior’s. “Those are my only options, huh? ‘Not too bad for my kind’, or ‘extremely good at hiding my true monstrous nature’?”

Fenris’s tone grew hushed. “I do not blame you for the wrongs done by others. But my experiences do not disappear by wishing the world were otherwise. From the day I woke up with these markings, until the day I fled Seheron, I never questioned the Magisters. A lifetime of naïvely walking into traps, of placing trust in those who seemed as sincere as you do now… Only after I escaped could I understand that every mage I had met proved to be a treacherous viper from the start, or unable to resist the temptation of power when it arose.”

“All mages? Every single one is untrustworthy?”

Fenris hesitated. “No. I do not believe so. Not anymore.” He stopped walking, turning to face Anders with a troubled look. “But if _any_ are… and, based off your altercation with the witch, you yourself do not believe all mages are trustworthy.”

“I never said _all mages_ are perfect. I just know the Circle isn’t the answer. They make more monsters than they stop. The Templars create abominations they are then celebrated for murdering.” He paused, feeling the familiar shiver creep up his spine, like he was exposed, powerless, isolated… His teeth drew blood from the forceful bite to his lip, but it snapped his attention back to the conversation. “And, anyways, anyone can be a monster. That is hardly restricted to mages, Fenris.”

A beat later, Fenris rejoined, “Your… assistant. Trainee. Keshen. He is of similar physical health and ability to you? Similar knowledge of healing and anatomy?” Fenris turned as he spoke, walking down the path at a more relaxed pace.

Anders’ brow furrowed, trying to anticipate where the seeming shift in topic was headed as he turned and kept pace with the warrior. “I guess? I mean, he’s a much better fighter than I am, but he’s not a mage…” For some reason he couldn’t quite articulate, he preferred talking to Fenris like this; shoulder to shoulder, not facing off. 

“And if one day it was decided that Kirkwall needed to be razed and burned, who would have an easier time of it – Keshen or yourself?”

Anders sighed, “I do see your point, Fenris. Anyone can be petty, or vindictive, or cruel, but it is easier for a mage to enact true monstrosities. _Easier,_ I said, because even you can’t argue we hold a monopoly there. But here’s the rub… magic can’t be made entirely safe, and it can’t be destroyed.” He took a few steps before adding, sadly, “And fear makes men more dangerous than magic ever could.”

Fenris grunted but opted not to reply. They were almost back to the base camp at the foot of Sundermount when Fenris muttered, “Thank you. For the barriers.”

* * *

Anders felt significantly better after a night’s rest. Though his body was still dappled with bruises of all shapes and colors, his head was clear, and he felt refreshed.

As a surprising side effect of his morning Idos drills with Fenris, he had developed routine sleeping hours for the first time since his final escape from the Circle. Left to his own devices, he tended to sleep in short stints whenever necessary, but the regular morning ritual served to enforce some discipline on his waking hours, and as such, his sleeping hours.

For such a seemingly minor change – the regularity of his sleep, more than the quantity – the benefits were quite remarkable. He didn’t feel sluggish for half the day, had more energy in general, and seemed to recover his mana and physical stamina at a faster rate.

He was also beginning to look forward to the practice. Fenris had been right in that it did seem to get easier with time. Of course, the warrior might have warned him that the second, third and fourth sessions were going to be agony; even his drills with the Wardens had not prepared him for the nonpareil demands of Idos.

At Anders’ second session, all the trim muscle he had honed through a life of escape and battle seemed to be about as effective at locomotion as ground beef. He reached his failure point somewhere in the second half of the first set; not a mental failure, but a physical incapacity to support his weight.

The third day, he made it through the first set, limbs shaking and unstable as a newborn foal, before Fenris called a halt. The fourth day was the most painful; his body was starting to adapt to the regimen, and Fenris lead two repetitions while Anders gritted his teeth against his body’s protests that it was being torn apart.

Fenris had then abstained from practice on the fifth day, and after that short rest, Anders’ endurance had improved daily.

It had been about two weeks since that first practice. This day, in the pre-dawn hours at the base of Sundermount, Fenris began to instruct Anders.

The warrior began the Idos in typical fashion, but as he flowed into the first form, he spoke in a relaxed, even drone. “Open Posture, press down to The Serpent’s Welcome.” Anders was trying to figure out where one form ended and the next began, causing him to lose his balance in the second form, or at least, what he assumed to be the second. Fenris held the posture until Anders regrouped, then moved fluidly back into the Open Posture. This time, he paused while pressing his hands down, a delineation, before shifting his weight to the left and sweeping his right leg out in the slow, deliberate lunge.

When Anders could again follow the first two movements, Fenris gestured for him to repeat them, and set about correcting his form. Anders was apparently making 14 mistakes in Open Posture, and over two dozen in Serpent’s Welcome. His shoulders slumped forward when they were supposed to be drawn back; his hand was tightly cupped rather than pliably arched; he stood on the ball of the foot when he wasn’t meant to and didn’t when he was supposed to. His head was down. He led with the wrong foot there.

He would have been teeming with self-doubt and frustration if it weren’t for Fenris. The warrior made corrections in a detached voice that neither praised nor condemned - merely observed. Often, the elf would give an instruction once, then tap the erring body part on subsequent mistakes. Between each observation, he would return to modeling the two forms, over and over.

The sun was peeking shyly around the edge of Sundermount when Fenris moved to the next two forms. “Fan Through Back,” Fenris said, followed shortly by “Dragon Spits Fire”. Dozens more corrections.

Anders’ mind was entirely empty except for the list of reminders that played through on repeat. _Weight on toes, legs bent, spine straight, elbow in, shift weight, supple wrist…_ He wasn’t aware of any fatigue or soreness. He wasn’t aware of much until fingers tapped between his shoulders – _slouching again_ – then trailed up his back to the nape of his neck. That was… more of a caress than it needed to be.

Determined not to be flustered, Anders continued his mantra of mental instructions. _Sweep arm, hand braces wrist, foot arched… is he just trying to throw me off? …step forward, head up, stomach in._

A short time later, the warrior moved behind him and pressed down on Anders’ hips, deepening his lunge. The stretch was intense, but Anders couldn’t spare attention for anything beyond the feel of Fenris’s hands bearing down on his waist. The contact lasted mere moments, but that was all it took before the mage’s britches were constricted with the press of his erection.

Anders breathed deeply, moving slowly back into Fan Through Back. _No, I will not fuck this up. Arm straight, toes down, fingers curled._ He could feel the blush heating his cheeks, could only imagine how obvious the bulge in his pants was. He hoped that perhaps, if he didn’t acknowledge it, Fenris might be kind enough to feign ignorance.

Fenris was kind, after a fashion. The warrior watched the mage for a time, and instead of commenting on his obvious arousal, Fenris instructed him to combine all four forms.

But though he reserved comment, the elf seemed to launch a campaign to further fluster the human. He made corrections with prodding fingers that lingered a little longer. He pointed out the slight bow in Anders’ lower back with a hand pressed against his abdomen.

Anders was stubborn, but he was only a man. When Fenris stood behind him in Open Posture and reached around to bring his elbows in line with his shoulders, Anders had to step away. The feel of Fenris’s body heat at his back, the stir of the warrior’s breath breaking like a tide on his shoulder, tickling the hairs on his neck; Anders felt himself jutting wantonly against the cloth prison of his britches, and he needed to either put distance between them, or give in to this long-ignored craving.

There was no hiding the conspicuous bulge, and it would be even more obvious that he was trying to if he kept his back to the warrior. So, eyes closing in resignation, he turned to face Fenris and said, as calmly as he could manage, “I… I don’t think I can take any more today, but, uh, thank you. For the lesson. I clearly have a lot to learn.”

The look Fenris gave him, _oh Maker_. The warrior stood a few paces off with his arms crossed, responded only with a deep, throaty hum of acknowledgement, but his eyes slipped down the mage’s body like a caress. Anders’ mouth went dry, his breath coming in shallow pants.

At length, Fenris’s eyes rose to meet Anders’. The warrior seemed to exert a subtle gravity. The mage’s feet carried him a few short paces towards Fenris before his higher-order thoughts were aware of it, as though his conscience and his body were two headstrong chariot horses intent to drive in different directions.

When the rational side realized how close he was to the source of his infatuation, Anders gritted his teeth and turned, determined to find a cold stream to jump in. It proved unnecessary; as he turned, Fenris reached out and clasped Anders around the forearm - which elicited an involuntary yelp from Anders as he reflexively pulled his arm back.

Fenris stepped back in confusion, and Anders’ brain started to work again. He stammered an apology, folding the arm of his shirt up until he could show Fenris the swollen, purple-and-black contusion that coiled around the top of his forearm, just beneath the elbow.

Fenris stared at the bruise for a long moment, then looked up at Anders. “This is from yesterday?”

Anders nodded.

“I will ask you again. Why do you not heal such injuries?”

Anders sighed; that was a trickier question. “I... well, I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t usually heal my bumps and scrapes; it seems silly, or… selfish, or something. I don’t know.”

Truth was, he _had_ healed minor injuries for most of his adolescent and adult life, but hadn’t really bothered since arriving in Kirkwall. _Strange,_ he thought; he hadn’t really noticed when he’d stopped, or why, or thought about it much at all really. 

“And besides, I’m very clumsy,” Anders redirected. When Fenris only responded with a quirked eyebrow, and didn’t rush to join in on the joke, Anders shifted uncomfortably. He finally added, “In some ways, I think I like the dull pain; it’s like a visible sign of a lesson learned, and a reminder not to get too complacent. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

Fenris looked contemplative for a moment. At length, he looked down, then at the dawn-lit clearing, then back at Anders. “I have been meaning to ask your opinion on something,” he stated impassively.

“Oh?” Anders asked, immediately nervous. A topic change with Fenris could lead just about anywhere. “On what?”

Fenris kept his back straight and his head high, though he looked at a point over Anders’ shoulder rather than making eye contact. “The night you followed me to the mansion. When I explained the… symptoms. It has since occurred to me that I may have… misunderstood.”

Anders tilted his head, trying to see where Fenris was going with this, but unwilling to interrupt the warrior’s train of thought.

Fenris continued, his voice carefully neutral. “I had assumed that Hadriana’s curse made me pliable to all mages. And yet, our travels with the witch have not elicited such impulses. Nor, from what little I can remember, did the mage Danarius sent with his slavers. It also stands to reason that if I were beholden to any mage, Danarius’s puppet could have simply commanded me to follow and would not have needed to render me unconscious.” 

“It did seem odd that the text of the curse didn’t mention anything like a compulsion, and that it would be so generalized, but that doesn’t necessarily mean…” he trailed off as he realized the import of Fenris’s observation. Suddenly, Anders was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, as understanding slowly washed over him. “So then, it’s really just… it’s just… me?”

Fenris still stared over Anders’ shoulder, but he nodded. “It began shortly after Hadriana’s death, and the timing was eminently suspicious. Not to mention…” the warrior trailed off with a vague gesture between them that managed to sum up a great deal of long-standing animosity. “I assumed it was the curse.”

Anders’ heart began to pound like a war drum; he could feel it in his fingers, hear it in his ears. “But now you are… less certain of that?”

Fenris’s gaze fell down and to the side, and he lifted a hand in a shrug-like gesture. “As I have said. It appears my premise was mistaken.”

“Is…” Anders choked on the words and had to swallow before continuing, “Is there a way to know for sure? Is there any way to prove that you are not under a compulsion?”

“You might be better positioned to answer that question. I suspect the best chance of certainty lies in killing Danarius and hopefully ridding myself of his residual taint.”

Anders steeled his features to keep the dismay off his face. Before he could find something vaguely reassuring or flippant to respond with, Fenris added in a low voice, “However. Before… when I was under his compulsion, I was unable to disobey direct commands for long. It grew uncomfortable after a few minutes, and painful within the hour. I never lasted longer than a day.”

Anders paused, trying not to think about all the horrific things left unsaid in that statement. Instead, he tried to focus on the practical implications, but that was also disturbing. His head dropped with an exasperated sigh. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying… Andraste’s third nipple, I really don’t like this idea. I don’t want to cause you pain _or_ give you commands, Fenris. And if it doesn’t even prove anything, if we can’t be sure…” he trailed off, hopes plummeting back to the ground.

Fenris made eye contact, then. When he spoke, his voice was firm, authoritative. “It proves whether I am free to deny you. And, therefore, whether I am free to make my own decisions.” He paused, considering his words. “It is unsettling to wonder if I am… drawn, to you, for reasons outside my control. However, from what I understand, such things are not typically conscious choices.” Anders opened his mouth to protest, but Fenris held up a hand and continued, “I understand your concerns. I… appreciate them. But I will not be bridled by fear. I did not escape one pair of shackles to walk willingly into another.”

Anders closed his mouth and looked at Fenris, really _looked._ The warrior was nigh bristling with defiance - facing a man who symbolized the warrior’s worst experiences, fears, and hatreds - and declaring himself free to make his own choices. Anders felt a strange rush of emotion welling inside him, something not quite the same as the vicious desire of moments before.

 _Checkmate,_ Anders thought with pride. _He’s outmaneuvered me with my own logic. I can’t stop him from making a free choice on the basis of protecting him from a lack of free choice._ With a pang of guilt, his traitorous mind reprimanded him, _as if I wouldn’t have caved eventually, regardless. I may not be weak, but I am not nearly that strong._

“Well, uh, what do you suggest?” Anders asked at length. “I’m really not fond of this whole ‘command’ business.”

Fenris had apparently thought about it. “Command me to keep my distance. No less than 15 paces at all times.”

It was actually quite brilliant. It was a benign order, would allow both parties room to face whatever the return trip to Kirkwall had in store for them, and didn’t force Fenris out of elemental shield range if the compulsion existed. Even better, it would be easy to falsify; staying within 15 paces for a day was not an onerous burden, and it would be both patently obvious and still safe if the warrior could not close that distance. 

Anders nodded, then realized he didn’t know how to proceed. “Alright. But, uh, do I just… say it? Or do I need to say it a specific way? Is it like ‘Simon Says’, and I have to say “I command you” before I say it? Or…,” Anders rambled, fidgeting uncomfortably.

Fenris shook his head, looking bewildered, but then a smirk crept up one side of his mouth. “You just say it.”

“Alright. Well, then, keep your distance, Fenris. No less than 15 paces at all times.” Anders’ spine crawled at the implications of the loathsome experiment, but he shoved that aside to watch the warrior. “Anything? Do you feel any different? Desperate to get away from me, perhaps?”

Fenris rolled his eyes, but the lopsided smile remained. “No more than usual. I will keep you apprised.” He turned, gestured towards their camp. “We should get back.”

* * *

The party set off early and they were making good time. Anders suspected they would be back in Kirkwall by mid-day. He wasn’t in a rush, however - Sundermount was one of the few lush places near Kirkwall. Plants and shrubs vied for sunlight beneath the patchy network of forested canopy on either side of the trail. Animals and insects thrived. It was almost a miracle of biodiversity compared to the barren rock that smothered life in and around the city. The abundance around him was like a balm for Anders’ soul. 

After a few hours hike, the party halted near a small wellspring to refill waterskins and nibble on rations. Anders followed the spring for a little way, thinking he might find a pool that he could rinse his coat off in, having been reassured by Fenris that short separations were not indicative of compulsion. ‘I will not be able to approach you at all,’ were his exact words.

Anders froze when he heard rustling in the nearby bushes. It couldn’t be Fenris, as the elf moved near-silently through the brush. He’d already cast a barrier before he noticed a delicate, tawny nose stick out of the bushes, followed by dewy brown eyes, large swiveling ears, and a long, elegant neck. Two more deer stepped boldly into the clearing after the first, and none seemed to pay him any mind.

Anders smiled broadly; when was the last time he had seen a family of deer? The wildlife in Kirkwall consisted entirely of vermin, fleas, and the various species of beast that comprised the criminal organizations.

“Oh, hello deer,” Anders greeted them cheerfully. He heard a strangled noise next to him, and when he turned, Fenris was frozen mid-step. The warrior stared at him, eyes rounded.

A deer lifted its head from grazing to examine the new arrival, and the motion apparently caught Fenris’s attention; he looked to the deer, back to Anders, back to the deer, and finally seemed to relax.

Strangely, the deer didn’t seem bothered to have two men encroach on their mid-morning stroll. They grazed, moved a little closer to drink from the stream, and generally went about their business. The smallest one actually moved a few steps closer to Fenris, nose flared, until it eventually got distracted by grazing again. It was close enough that Fenris could have been eating venison for months with a lazy strike from Lethendralis.

Anders was enchanted, watching the little herd with barely restrained joy until Hawke stepped from the bushes and sent the deer bolting. “There you are! You guys ready? Merrill is in a bit of a hurry to get back,” the Champion asked-without-asking. Anders cast one last look in the direction of the fleeing deer before nodding and heading back to the path, Fenris a pace to his side.

_Huh. Does it mean anything that woodland creatures are afraid of Hawke, but not Fenris?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look behind the scenes today, because the writing of this fic has been uhh…unconventional. 
> 
> This entire 7,885-word foray into Sundermount – the Merrill-bashing and subsequent identity crisis, the varterral, the sparring, the practice and sexy tension – started off entirely for the purpose of finding a plausible setting for deer to occur. 
> 
> It all evolved from a desire to make Anders say “hello deer” - to a deer - in Fenris’s earshot. 
> 
> Really, the story thus far is 5 or 6 scenes I really wanted to write, with a plot that evolves in between based on what seems relevant to Anders in the given setting and overall plot/relationship arcs. Btw - I'm not recommending this strategy per se. But, hey, I’ve started a handful of fanfics, and I always seem to get bogged down in making a story that is original but plausible within the confines of the canon, or I just get frustrated with the overall plot. So, this time I'm trying to preempt writer’s block. I’m making molehills out of mountains XD 
> 
> I don’t know if this is useful information for anyone out there who’s stuck in the blocky areas of writing, or if I just aired a dirty secret that ruins the creative distance between writer and reader. OH WELL ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	13. The Longest Day

It was so easy to forget how enormous Kirkwall was, when he was deep in its sewers or surrounded by stone warrens that followed the faults of the rock and not any navigable design. The sheer wall of jet stone that jutted from the winding canal on the cusp of the Waking Sea could be seen from Sundermount. Here, right up against the barren grandiosity of a city built to enormous scale and utterly devoid of warmth or life, Kirkwall was an oppressive colossus.

Anders approached the city in appropriately grim silence when he realized he was walking alone. Hawke and Merrill were several dozen paces ahead, and Fenris was not next to him.

He stilled, heart seizing in his chest as if he had momentarily frozen into one of the ubiquitous statues of tortured, enslaved beings of Kirkwall’s dark past.

Steeling himself, he turned, terrified to see the exact scene that played before his eyes. Fenris had stopped, fallen back – _is that 15 paces? –_ and was looking down at his feet. His fringe of snowy white hair blocked the overhead sunlight, casting his face in shadow.

“Fenris…?” Anders called apprehensively.

“Stay back,” Fenris gritted out. The shadows melted from his face as he looked up, wide-eyed.

And then his anxious expression cracked, fell into a self-satisfied smirk; he jogged to catch up to Anders.

Anders stared. It took an unseemly long while before his brain slogged through to the realization that Fenris had been messing with him.

“Seriously??” he hissed. “I can’t believe you wou… I was… ” he faltered, unable to isolate a thought in the emotional maelstrom. “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” he finally landed on.

“Perhaps. Though, I am much funnier than you think I am.”

Anders shot him a dirty look. “Really, how can you joke about something like that?”

Fenris glanced at him sidelong. “You prefer silent, brooding angst?”

“No, it’s not that – although, well, I guess I didn’t _dislike_ it – I just meant… augh!” Anders huffed, his thoughts scattering on the wind like dandelion fluff. “This is serious, Fenris, and dark – it’s rather unpleasant to be an unwitting participant in sociopathic mind-control magic.”

“That is how humor works. Can you think of anything funny about happy people doing wholesome things?”

“Only that such mythical creatures are rumored to exist.”

“How very dark.”

“Huh.” Anders replied, settling in for a long mental debate on the nature of comedy.

* * *

Anders hadn’t been able to disprove Fenris’s premise by the time they reached the city gates. He was trying to not think about how long this damned day felt, and was simultaneously looking forward to a bath and a real bed while dreading the claustrophobic walls and palpable tension within the city.

His mixed feelings about their return to Kirkwall didn’t have a chance to germinate, as Hawke pulled him aside within moments of stepping through the city gates. “Anders,” she began, “What is the deal with you and Fenris?”

“Deal?” Anders spluttered. “What are you –“

“C’mon, you can tell me. There’s been a noticeable lack of venom and vitriol flying around on the last few missions, aside from that shitshow with Merrill. And you’ve been glued together – even _talking_ \- this entire morning. What gives?”

“Nothing gives, Hawke. I believe it was you who insisted on the ‘no murder in camp’ rule.” Anders was a terrible liar, but he could be selective with the truth.

Hawke looked over her shoulder at where Merrill and Fenris had stopped nearby. “Look at him though, he’s so… fidgety. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“Maker, Hawke, he’s always like that on missions – and maybe you would be too if you were perpetually hunted down by slavers, unable to trust that your hard-won freedom wasn’t going to be ripped away at any moment.” Anders hated that Fenris was always looking over his shoulder, jerking towards any unusual sound. He deserved better.

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “Uh huh. And you’re defending him now? Alright, look, maybe it’s none of my business, but if I find out you’ve been hiding something that affects the group, we’re gunna have words.”

“Fair enough,” Anders sighed. It wasn’t unreasonable for Hawke to be concerned; he certainly didn’t envy her the position of assuring the team’s success and survival.

“You know you can tell me stuff. And things.” Hawke grumbled. “Anyways, I wanted to let you know – the Keeper wanted to talk to us about some kid – she’s coming by the alienage as soon as she can make the trip, so probably tomorrow or the next day. I’d like you and Fenris there. But, uh, if possible, I think we should leave Merrill out of this one.”

Anders nodded, “Yeah, to say there seems to be some tension between the Keeper and the ex-First is putting it mildly. But why meet in the alienage if we’re trying to avoid the Dalish fireworks?”

Hawke shrugged; a casual observer would think the gesture nonchalant, but Anders suspected it was to cover up the fact that an accidental encounter had never occurred to her. “That’s what Marethari wanted. I’ll deal with Merrill. I assume you will tell Fenris?” 

“I can if you’d like,” Anders replied, his voice carefully neutral. It wouldn’t do to protest too much.

* * *

“Wait, wait, why do you get to use the bath first?”

“Because it is in my room. And because I am in splatter radius more frequently than you.”

“So, you’re punishing me because I get to fight at range?”

“Yes.”

The argument was strange. There was no venom in any of the words, no underhanded jabs at sensitive spots; it had all the features of a habit with none of the animosity that formed the habit in the first place.

“Well, why don’t we bring up the other tub? You said the two of us could manage it.”

“Because I would rather take a bath.”

“Augh! Alright, here.” Anders flattened one hand and placed the other in a fist above it. “Rock, paper, blade. If you win, you can take your damned bath in peace. If I win, we move the other tub. I’ll even warm the water for you if I win.” 

Fenris’s glance flicked up and to the left as he considered briefly, then held his hands out in front of Anders.

“One, two, three.”

Fenris frowned. “Best two out of three?”

“Don’t be a sore loser – just think about that nice warm water. Now which storage room is it in?”

* * *

_“I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret, Fenris, and anyways, what does it matter if you can read just fine now?”_

_“Because that disclosure was made in confidence, and Hawke had no right to tell you.”_

_“Well, Hawke is definitely the one that would step in to help you, but I thought everyone knew how much of a gossip she can be. Izzy is the one that actually keeps secrets. And anyways - it was a compliment! Maker, I just thought it was admirable that you’ve stuck with it!”_

_“Keep your compliments and your pity to yourself.”_

_The first time Anders had inquired about Fenris’s progress at reading, shortly after he had arrived for his ‘temporary’ stay with the elf, it had caused a bit of a row._

_After a little time to cool off, Anders had realized how pissed he would be if Hawke had gossiped about one of his more personal secrets. He immediately sought out the warrior and apologized. Fenris had shrugged off the incident with surprising ease and dismissed the apology with a wave of the hand and an overly casual, “It is nothing. Forget it.”_

…

“What are you reading?” Anders asked, stirring from his reverie with a shake of the head.

Anders had settled in a chair within the recently decluttered storage-room-turned-kitchen off the main hall, trying to make sense of a Tevinter tome he had purchased from the Dalish merchant. He was having very little luck, as the tome was in Tevene, and he could only decipher a handful of root words.

A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, fending off the chill that had seeped in as soon as he emerged from the much-needed bath. The scant remains of a simple but filling dinner - peasant bread and a thick stew of salt pork, barley, carrots and turnip - sat cooling on the nearby table.

Fenris had settled in his new favorite lounge; an array of old sacks of dried beans and grain that had been relocated from the cellar. The aesthetically heinous ‘chair’ reminded Anders of an oversized nest. The warrior was curled inside it, likewise engaged with a book.

“Mythology,” Fenris replied.

“Anything interesting?”

“I do not know, as yet. These stories are unfamiliar.”

Anders didn’t press the issue. Fenris would tell him more when and if he wanted to. “Hey, Fenris, do you read Tevene by chance?”

“When would I have learned to read Tevene?”

“I don’t know… you have this whole autodidact side of you, I’m never sure what you know. Just thought I’d ask – this entire damned tome is in Tevene.”

“Hmm. Self _…Didaktos…_ self-taught?”

Anders smiled and nodded, not looking up from his - well, his picture book, evidently. 

“Did she tell you?” Fenris asked minutes later.

“Did who tell me what?”

“Hawke. That I drove her off.” Fenris sighed, shifting in his bean sack nest. “I was ashamed of my slow progress. I lashed out at the one person trying to help. I have regretted that ever since.” Fenris didn’t glance up from his book, but his eyes had a haunted, far-away cast.

“No, she didn’t tell me. I doubt she’s proud of it; her intentions can be much more generous than her patience.” Anders thought for a moment. “So, you really did teach yourself?”

“No. Hawke instructed me in the alphabet, grammar, and the basics of sentence structure before I lashed out. My contribution was simply repetition and practice.”

Anders shook his head in wonder. “You’re remarkable,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I said that’s remarkable,” Anders lied. “Your self-discipline, I mean.”

Fenris grunted, and Anders tried to stop thinking of all the ways he wished the past had been different. He only marginally succeeded, given that the tome was nearly indecipherable and was proving a poor distraction.

He was cursing his ignorance when he came across a picture that looked like a sleeveless tunic very similar to the one Fenris wore under his cuirass, followed by flattened armor patterns. This triggered a chain of questions that eventually came out as, “Fenris? What the fuck is grafted spirit hide armor?”

Fenris looked up with an arched eyebrow, but didn’t comment on the non-sequitur. “It is made from the hide of abominations who ask too many questions,” he replied, though the words were softened by the faint, lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.

Anders snorted. “No, really, did anyone ever mention the origin or creation of that armor? I mean, what if you need to get it mended?”

“No. A slave is not typically informed of the intricacies of wardrobe choices. And it has never required maintenance to date.”

“Huh,” Anders replied. He needed to learn Tevene.

* * *

_Maker, time has never passed so slowly,_ Anders reflected, thinking - not for the first time - that this day would never end.

“What was it that Hawke wished to discuss with you?” Fenris asked, as though it was a natural segue from a previous topic, and not a statement made out of the blue. Most of the evening had progressed in much the same manner; pauses in the conversation might stretch an hour or more, and then the threads would be picked up as if no time had passed.

The sun had gone down hours ago, but Anders doubted he would be able to sleep. Here, the fire was warm and the view was captivating.

“Oh, yeah, I was meaning to tell you. The Keeper wanted her help with something… I dunno, something about a kid. Hawke wanted the two of us to join her, tomorrow or the day after. Oh, and Marethari wants to meet in the Alienage, but Hawke wanted to keep Merrill out of it, considering the uh, circumstances. I guess Hawke didn’t really think that one through.”

“That can hardly be considered a problem. The witch is easily diverted.”

“Oh? Planning to go have a nice chat, distract her for a day?” Anders asked rhetorically.

“It is a simple enough matter to rearrange her twine. Perhaps a detour to the viscount’s gardens.”

Anders couldn’t help himself; chuckles devolved into full-bellied laughter. The mental imagery was just too accurate – Merrill, cheerfully following the twine up over the walls, past the guards, blithely enjoying a stroll through the private gardens. There was a disarming innocence to the Dalish mage, so wholly counterintuitive in a woman that consorted with demons and practiced blood magic.

As the giggles finally passed, he paused, catching his breath, and looked up to see Fenris smiling. _Wow,_ Anders thought with a shiver. The warrior was definitely smiling - a full, high-beam smile that nearly took Anders’ breath away. _Have I ever seen him unguardedly happy before?_

He looked away quickly, worried that he might somehow ruin the moment of candid levity if he observed it too closely. “Oh man, I bet Varric would put down money on how many places we could send her before she catches on.”

He heard the words as they came out and paused. “Wow. That was _devious._ Damnit, Fenris, now I can’t help but notice when mean-spirited things make me laugh.”

“I apologize for pointing out the obvious.”

Anders shook his head with a fond smirk. Fenris could say more with seven words than he himself could summarize in a small novel. _You’d probably think he was being profound if he just sat there scratching himself, you besotted wanker._

His face fell as he remembered Hawke’s other line of questioning. “There was something else. Hawke asked if there was anything she needed to know about, well, about you and I.”

Fenris looked up from his book. “What did she say exactly?”

“She noticed we weren’t fighting as much… were talking, even. She wanted to know if anything was going on that might affect the group.”

“And?”

“Well, I told her no. I’ve never discussed the whole saga of the elemental shield with her, only because I’m worried she might overreact.” He sighed, tipping his book down to rest in his lap. “I didn’t know what else to say. I don’t think it affects the group, per se, and therefore is none of her business. But I guess a situation could arise where we get separated, and then, who knows?”

Fenris closed his book carefully, rousing gracefully from his nest to pace over to the table. “She does not know you are staying here?” he asked, collecting dirty dishes with a strained air of casualness.

“No, or at least I haven’t told anyone. I think Izzy knows – it has to have tipped her off that I’m not always around for her frequent checkups as of late. And maybe Varric – I don’t think a flea could fart in Darktown without him knowing.”

He looked down, steeling himself, then tentatively ventured, “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think you’d like it to be common knowledge. People would assume… well, all sorts of things, probably. I didn’t want to put you in an awkward situation, especially considering I don’t even really know what’s going on.”

Fenris looked at him sidelong. “I believe I have made my position clear.”

Anders felt his cheeks flushing. Surely, he was deluding himself; nothing was ever this easy. The whole situation - that he was essentially living here, that alarmingly hot kiss, their awkward and somewhat vague conversations on the matter – none of it felt quite real, in that Anders just couldn’t convince himself that his affections might actually be reciprocated. It could all, so easily, be a misunderstanding. _Or a fucking curse…_

“I… I guess that’s true. I just never really thought about things like, well, like this. Any of this." He tried to sift out words from his nebulous thoughts, but they seemed too complex to fit inside the parameters of language. "I like being here. Talking with you. Learning from you. It feels... wrong, to hope for anything else.”

Fenris turned, leaning against the table and crossing his arms. “There are times when I suspect there must be two of you, mage. You are quick-witted and fearless in battle, you had no qualms arguing your beliefs endlessly when I meant nothing to you, and you stubbornly persevere in learning the Idos and advancing your research to redress Hadriana’s curse. Yet, when something stands to benefit you, you wilt like a plucked flower. Why do you not fight for what you desire?”

The insight was incisive, and Anders had no quip or defense to hide behind. “I don’t know, Fenris, ok? It feels selfish. And risky. And I can’t get over the feeling that I’m taking advantage of you.”

“We have proven that my will is my own.”

“Well, we will have hopefully proved that by that by morning,” _please, Maker let us prove that._ “But we haven’t proven that your, uh… interest is.”

Fenris huffed impatiently. “Yes, as has already been discussed. There is a difference between being protective and being patronizing.”

“You’re right, I know.” Anders sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he were deflating. Softly, almost to himself, he admitted, “But you’re not the only one I’m trying to protect.”

Fenris frowned, waiting.

He stood and turned, fiddling with something behind him so as to avoid having to look Fenris in the eye. In a rush, like infection spilling from a lanced wound, Anders blurted, “I keep picturing the day that we finally kill that bastard. It’s so satisfying, and everyone is celebrating… and then you look at me in revulsion, you hate me again – no, you hate me more, because I had my filthy mage hands on you.”

Anders shook his head, then squared his shoulders and looked sidelong at the warrior. “Look, Fenris. I don’t know what all this is to you… but, I admire you. Your thoughtfulness, and courage. Your _humor…_ oh, Maker, that dry wit. And so much more that I can’t really even put into words. The tenacity that brought you across the entire continent. That made you possibly the only former slave to ever successfully flee Tevinter. I’ve never seen someone fight as hard as you for a life anyone else might take for granted.”

“And the embarrassing truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s madness, I know. I pass by your room at night and ache to enter just to see you, assure myself that you're safe and well. I have daydreams of touching you without guilt or doubt, and the desire is so insatiable that I think I could be content to do nothing but touch and massage you for days on end. I hear your voice in my fantasies, deep and smoky, like liquid velvet. I know you probably think it’s foolish, but I’m just a man, with healthy appetites, and you have been this unobtainable, forbidden fruit that has tormented me for months – nearly a year!” He turned, finally facing the warrior as he added, “I have been fighting this whole time, Fenris. Fighting _against_ what I want, because I will. not. take. advantage of you.”

Dropping his head, Anders quietly added, “And despite it all, I fear I’ve already lost.” His voice returning to a normal volume, he finished plaintively, “I just don’t know how to do this with an axe hanging over my head.”

Fenris did not respond for a long time; unlike his usual thoughtful silences, this one was agonizing. “You seek assurances, but I have none to offer,” the warrior said at last.

He took a step closer to Anders, voice pitched low. “Nothing is certain. That is hardly unique to this situation.” He closed the final step until he stood inches away from the mage. “I do not believe you to be a man who cowers from risk. I also do not believe you are blind. I cannot predict what my former master’s death will bring, but I am not enduring this perplexing discussion casually, nor accidentally.”

Fenris leaned forward until his lips almost grazed Anders’ ear, his smoky baritone thick with emotion as he rasped, “And when I take you to my bed, it will not be for inquiries as to my safety.”

Anders’ eyes closed; his head rolled back. He heard a small, frustrated groan escape his lips at the promise in Fenris’s voice. “You did that on purpose,” he groused, breathless, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow.

Fenris straightened. “Yes. I do everything on purpose.”

“It must be quite the thrill to have this much power over a mage,” Anders joked weakly.

“It could be.”

Anders swallowed again, finally tilting his head back down to look at the warrior with a puzzled expression.

The look Fenris gave him was both predatory and clearly annoyed by Anders’ obtuseness.

“Oh! Right. B..but I thought we agreed on a full day…”

“‘We’ agreed, in that you insisted. And then you stood there spouting elegant words while accusing me of holding all the power.” He paused. “At present, I do not desire elegant things from you, mage. I desire things that are volcanic and wicked.”

With a frustrated sigh that sounded more like a snarl, Fenris turned to retrieve the nearest wine bottle. He slumped against the wall, took a long draught, and held the bottle out to Anders without looking up. Anders chugged several mouthfuls before handing it back.

The crackling fire filled the heavy silence. At length, Anders regained enough blood flow to his head to ask, “Well, how am I supposed to know? It’s not like you just… tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I assumed it was quite obvious. And I rather enjoy your mindreading attempts. They often reveal much more than what you seem to share intentionally.”

Anders’ brow furrowed, a rare frown passing over his lips. “Now I know you’re just fucking with me.”

Fenris laughed, a quick, unrestrained bark. He straightened and reached out, briefly taking Anders by the chin as his thumb smoothed over the frown. “Do not be petulant. Your assumptions tell me how you hope and fear I will respond, and how you expect to be treated.” He dropped his hand. “It is also to my benefit; you are an intelligent man, and you imbue my silences with your own wisdom.”

Anders rolled his eyes, “You’re hardly a slouch in the wit department, Fenris.”

“I did not say I was ignorant or dim-witted. I just choose not to engage that faculty with such… gusto, and regularity.” He set the bottle down and turned for the door, adding over his shoulder, “Now, since you insist on a full day, I intend to get some sleep.”

* * *

Anders couldn’t sleep. He went to his room and flopped on the bed, but was soon back up and pacing. _Will this damned day never end??_ He tried running through several Circle relaxation techniques. He made another attempt at reading.

And then he was in bed, still hard though he had climaxed like fountain after a scant few strokes. Fenris’s voice continued to echo in his mind.

Anders pulled his pillow out from under him, holding it against his head as he groaned in frustration. At last, he cast a modified sleep spell – powerful, but extremely brief – and finally sank into obliviousness.


	14. Grafted Spirit Hide

Anders startled awake a short time later, and immediately threw off the covers.

Kirkwall had been experiencing a rather unusual heat wave the past week, and the stone floor of the mansion was still warm on his bare feet as he ran downstairs to grab the Tevinter tome. He summoned a blazing fire in the hearth with barely a thought, tipping the tome towards the flickering light as he flipped through pages frantically.

At last, he found the page with the armor diagrams. There were ample notes scrawled beside each diagram, but the flowing script was nearly impossible to decipher; only a few words and phrases had seeped into his subconsciousness, simmering until they boiled up in a half-remembered dream.

_Liga eam facere corporalium. Liga, to bind? Bind something …corporeally. Bind it to a human? No, bind it to make it corporeal._

_Respondeo dicendum quod ego daemonium… The demon will respond as… as what? Damnit!_

Anders flopped on a chair, rattled. He couldn’t be sure. He had no idea how accurate his guesses at translation were, and even then, one dusty tome proved nothing. He groaned, clapping the book closed and tossing it back on the table in disgust. He buried his hands in his palms. _But what if it’s true… oh, Maker, are there any atrocities those bastards didn’t commit?_

Anders poured water into a kettle and, too impatient to boil it on the hearth, held his hand close while channeling a force spell to raise the kinetic energy of the water inside. This he poured over a strainer of soothing tea leaves. He sat again, holding the mug in shaky hands.

“Are you w--” a low voice called, echoing in the silent room before cutting off abruptly. Already jittery to begin with, Anders startled at the first syllable, causing a splash of steaming tea to lash across his chest. He hissed and cursed, jumping back and overturning the chair, before finally gaining the wits to put the mug down. He held his tunic away from his skin and looked up at Fenris, the source of the disembodied voice. The warrior had taken a few cautious steps closer, his hand outstretched as if to intervene without knowing how.

“Maker, Fenris… you startled me.”

“I do not accept responsibility for your flighty midnight antics,” Fenris huffed defensively. He cocked his head, a distinct edge to his voice as he added, “Are you well? I heard… running?

 _Did he sound worried?_ “Ah, shit, I’m sorry. Yes. Something occurred to me - I think I may have been dreaming, actually - but I needed to check.”

“Dare I ask what has you racing through the mansion at this hour?”

Anders sat back down, wincing as the fabric of his shirt clung wetly to his burned skin. “I’m quite sure you don’t want to know, actually, but I don’t really even know if I know for sure…”

Fenris waited, and Anders realized he was patiently holding out for a more sensible explanation. “Er, what I mean is, I think I discovered something. About your armor. It might be useful information – I think we might be able to nullify the curse permanently. But it’s also really…” Anders sighed, “It’s dark, Fenris. I don’t know if I’m right, but if I am… oh, Maker, it’s dark.”

Fenris crouched down to rest on his heels. “Very well. What is it you have learned?”

Anders reached over to retrieve the tome from the table, then flipped through to the armor diagram. “I was thinking about your armor last night. Such an odd name – what animal does ‘grafted spirit hide’ come from, anyways? And how does it manage to phase with you when you ghost? I had a… disturbing dream, and it reminded me of something I saw in this book.” He held the book out to show Fenris the diagrams, mostly flat patterns for individual components, with half a page of notes.

“Here it references ‘Valorem’, which is an odd word to capitalize.”

“Valor,” Fenris supplied with a nod.

“Yes. And then, down here, it says “ _Liga eam facere corporalium. Respondeo dicendum quod ego daemonium..._ but I can’t make out the last two words.”

Fenris took a deep breath. “You are suggesting…” he faltered.

Anders looked down. “I think that bastard… somehow bound a spirit of Valor into a body, and then flayed its skin to craft that armor. It explains why you can ghost with it – the essence of a spirit is of the Fade, and when you flare your lyrium, it can - I don’t know - ‘awaken’ enough to cross the boundary. The metal components must be somehow linked, or - or maybe they’re like the plates on a Pride demon…”

Fenris was clearly following his logic - perhaps outpacing him. “Corporalium. Embodied. Do you think… did the spirit have a body? Or did Danarius force it into yet another unwilling slave?”

Anders looked away. He couldn’t meet that penetrating gaze. “I don’t know, Fenris. I’m sorry. Demons can sometimes take on physical form without possession, as you know, but there’s no explanation as to why. Spirits almost exclusively avoid this realm, but the few I’ve heard of do not have bodies of their own. I wish I knew more - it’s just not well understood.”

“Is it… would it have died? Or is it trapped? In the armor?”

“Well, spirits and demons don’t really die. As best we know, their essence just returns to the Fade. In this case, I suspect that only some of its energy is bound to the…hide, in which case it is nothing like a self-aware entity. Maybe more like the wisps. The rest is hopefully convalescing, back in the Fade.” Anders knew how thin that optimism sounded, even to himself. 

“I see.” Fenris looked down for a long stretch. “Yet one more atrocity to add to the pile.” When he looked up at last, the warrior’s face was again shuttered, that mask that appeared whenever Magisters entered the conversation. “And you think this has something to do with Hadriana’s curse?”

“Not exactly. But…well, it’s hard to explain, really. I think I may be able to weave a spell into your armor – similar to runes, in principle. If the spirit hide activates in response to your lyrium, it should essentially re-cast the spell every time you ghost. No meddling apostate required,” Anders said with a forced half-smile.

“I see,” Fenris repeated, though his words were clipped and sharp. He stood from his crouch, eyes downcast. “Thank you for telling me,” he said flatly, then turned and retreated to the main hall on silent footsteps.

 _Fuck. Does he think I condone the creation of that armor? Way to go, Anders. Maker, what idiotic impulse drove you to describe yet another of the Magister’s barbaric acts and then offer to conduct a magical experiment in the next breath?_ Anders buried his head in his hands.

* * *

It had only been a couple hours since Anders had awoken from the sleep spell and made the gruesome connection to Fenris’s armor. Already the narrow windows let in a faint light as the blackness of the night sky retreated from the impending twilight.

He had changed into a light, undyed linen tunic that hung loosely away from the burn on his chest, and a pair of dark green britches, several sizes too large and belted at the waist. He had spent the rest of the time restlessly pacing and thinking.

At last, his feet carried him out to the main hall, over to the column that concealed the hidden latch, and finally, down into the basement.

The smooth, increasingly mindless motions of the Idos helped settle his overactive mind. He was barely aware of how warm the underground lair was, or the sweat beading at his brow.

Near the end of his first sequence, Fenris appeared. As always - when not on a mission - the warrior eschewed the plate, gauntlets, and pauldrons, garbed only in the inky skintight leggings and sleeveless tunic with intricate golden hem. Anders found something vaguely unsettling in how remarkable Fenris looked in the uniform; it was clearly designed to be flattering, drawing the eye to his powerful shoulders, his tattooed arms, and it offered tantalizing peeks at bronze flesh in the golden-hemmed windows at the back. Anders couldn’t deny the effect the stunning visage had on him, but it was uncomfortable to think on why the base layers of a warrior’s armor would be so intentionally provocative. 

Fenris stood in the doorway for a few long minutes, watching, but not making corrections. At last, he moved into position silently, taking a few long, deep breaths. He slipped into the routine just as Anders moved into Open Posture for the second time.

Time passed. Two repetitions. Three. By the fourth, the lack of sleep and the combined heat of exertion in a warm room began to fray his concentration. He finished his fourth sequence, but only just.

Fenris didn’t stop. Anders steeled himself.

_Fan Through Back. Dragon Spits Fire. Repel Rain. Cloud Hands. Whip Then Pat the Horse._

Seven forms in and he was shaking. Halfway through he stumbled, palms scraping on the stone floor as he caught himself. He stormed over to the indoor pond, splashed relatively cool water on his face, and again returned to his position near the center of the room.

_Broken Windmill. Carry Wounded Over Mountain. Snake in the Grass._

And then Anders stopped worrying. It was as though his mind drifted off while his body continued the sequence.

And so, he drifted.

It was strange; not good or bad, not pleasant or unpleasant. He just was, for a time.

He was roused by a gruff hand shaking his shoulders. “I said, that is enough, mage. Here, drink.” A waterskin was pressed into his hand. He stared at it for a moment, dazed, then rubbed his eyes and took a long drink.

“Huh? Oh. Thank you,” Anders said, returning the skin with furrowed brows. “That’s never happened before.”

“It is not uncommon. Martial forms are practiced so as to be executed without thought. I did not expect _you_ to discover that for quite some time yet.” 

Anders snorted. “Yeah, I’m surprised myself. My thoughts can be… hard to escape.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Anders became aware of how sweaty he was, the way his hair plaited around his neck, how generally unappealing he must look and smell. He felt the sting of salty sweat trickle over the burn across his chest. _Thinking is such a bummer._

He looked up at Fenris to say as much, but the elf had turned and was headed for the stairs. _It’s official. He thinks I’m a damn Magister now._

“Fenris, wait,” he called.

The warrior paused at the doorway, turning back to face him.

“I wanted to apologize. For last night. Er, this morning, I guess,” Anders prattled, struggling to string words together. His brows knit together as he continued, “I’m honestly horrified, by what Danarius did to you, to your armor… by all of it. And I didn’t mean to seem insensitive… it’s not like I was planning to start conducting experiments on you. Maker, I hope you know that.”

He scanned the warrior’s face for any indication of a reaction, but seeing none, he babbled on. “I just keep thinking that if anything were to happen to me, you’d be just as vulnerable as that night the slavers broke in.” His voice caught in his throat, choked by the injustice of the formidable warrior felled by such an underhanded gambit. “If you don’t want to mess with it, I completely understand. I just wanted a contingency plan. Maker knows I’ve been knocked unconscious before, and with the increased Templar activity, I would hate for the spell to wear off right as I get Silenced or something. I know I’m probably overthinking it, and it’s probably my own selfishness again, but I hate the thought of…” he trailed off, the sentence too repulsive to finish.

Fenris tilted his head, a deeply pensive look on his thought. “Contingency plan?”

“Well, yeah. Like, a Plan B, in case Plan A fails.”

“I know what it means. I had assumed…” the warrior trailed off, then turned. “Come, let us open some windows. You are still red as an apple.”

“Or a parsnip,” Anders added, following the warrior up the stairs. Fenris snorted.

* * *

Fenris tossed the mage a chilled apple he had retrieved from the root cellar and set a filled waterskin on the table, which Anders obligingly laced with frost. Anders took several greedy gulps before setting it back down. “I wonder why it gets so hot in the Idos room… It’s not like the fireplaces were lit, and the root cellar stays chilled all year round.”

“I do not know. Temperature anomalies were not uncommon in Tevinter. For such to exist in a hidden lair in the mansion of a Magister’s associate would hardly be a revelation.”

Anders was just starting to wonder if the room was indeed spelled – and with what – when Fenris interrupted his train of thought. “This rune you wish to place on my armor. You intend it as… a contingency plan.” It wasn’t really a question, but Anders nodded.

“You did not intend it to replace your elemental shield?”

“Well, no, I mean, I had thought of it as a backup, like how you carry a belt knife but don’t really plan to fight with it.” Anders said, taking a bite of crisp, cool apple as he searched the warrior’s words for hidden meaning.

“You said, ‘no meddling apostates required’.”

“Well, yeah, but that was a lame joke. You’ve met me, right?” He faltered, suddenly nervous. He set down his apple and turned a wary gaze to Fenris. “That is, unless you’d rather that be Plan A. I mean… huh. I guess I hadn’t really though this through. You wouldn’t really need me around to cast the shield if it works as intended. If… well if you’d rather I—”

“No. I am not opposed to this… rune of yours, but only as a contingency plan. I prefer the elemental shield.”

Anders stared mutely as his error finally occurred to him. It was honestly ridiculous how dense he was when it came to Fenris. “I thought you were worried I would start experimenting on you like a deranged Magister. But you weren’t. You thought I was looking for a replacement for the shield. So that… what, so I wouldn’t need to stick around to maintain the shield?”

Fenris bristled, straightening in his chair. “Yes,” he snapped, jaw clenching stubbornly.

“I’m such an idiot.” Anders deflated, cradling his head in his palms. “I should have realized how it sounded.” He looked up, meeting Fenris’s eyes plaintively. “After all the embarrassing shit I said last night, I can’t believe you think I could just… like this is all just one of Hawke’s missions to complete and be done with.”

“Yet you continue to seek out bullheaded arguments as to why my attraction to you could not possibly be valid.”

Anders looked down. _I would have assumed the same thing if I were him._ “I’m sorry, Fenris. I never meant to say - even to _imply_ that…”

He tried, really tried, to step outside his own frame of reference for a moment; he couldn’t reconcile this fearless, stunning, thoughtful warrior with a man who was afraid _Anders_ would leave. But then, it must be excruciatingly hard for the elf to trust anyone, given how brutally he had fought for his precarious freedom and how callously he had been treated before then. It made sense, in a way that Anders could only scarcely comprehend the edges of, that Fenris expected betrayal and abandonment.

Anders felt himself standing, circling the table to crouch before the warrior. He looked up at Fenris solemnly. “I’m sorry. For being so dense. I could say you make me stupid, but the blame isn’t yours.” He tried to affect a casualness he didn’t feel, adding, “I like being your magical bodyguard, and I’d like it to stay that way if it’s all the same to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has always irritated me. I’ve made it like, 6 pages deep on progressively specific Google searches without any shred of an explanation on what the fuck grafted spirit hide is. I mean, considering the devotion of this fandom, it’s surprising to say the least. The one interesting thing I came across is a fabulously detailed texture map by johnwaylandsmith on tumblr. You can see (at least to my eye, and in pretty alarming detail - particularly on the leggings) how smaller pieces of ‘hide’ have been sewn together. I leave it to y’all to judge, but it has a decidedly ‘All That Remains’ Leandra vibe to it :/
> 
> So, there’s logical assumptions that can be made. 'Grafted' seems like a redundancy if you’re talking about leather armor – I mean, hide is just removed tissue, and so is a skin graft…if they’re saying the armor is like a second skin, then why use both words?
> 
> I can’t think of any specific contradictions with canon for this little deviation, and BioWare never bothered to explain why the armor can ghost right along with the Lyrium Ghost himself (though I for one would be thrilled if it didn’t – Fenris would be naked like, all the time). I mean, we might know more if things had gone really sideways on the Wisdom quest in DAI – but here we are.
> 
> So, yeah, I took a left turn down Tinfoil Lane with this one, but I mean, someone had to.
> 
> Also: I really like the little exchange in the secret lair. I see it as a progress report when compared to Chapter 5. In both cases, Anders tries to have a conversation with a prickly elf he has inadvertently offended. It makes me happy that Fenris is receptive after a “Fenris, wait” this time – instead of the stalking and begging and door slamming angst of times past. And yeah, there are stupid misunderstandings – but that shit gets resolved like, immediately.


	15. Relinquishing Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated FBS for full-blown smut. Explicit M/M sex ahead.

Fenris sat rigidly, searching Anders’ face for a long moment. At length, he huffed and gave a single, slow nod. “I should not have made assumptions.”

Anders’ gaze wandered from the mossy green eyes, sliding over the warrior’s dark, furrowed brow, his aquiline nose, the perfect bow shape of his upper lip.

The entire morning seemed surreal, dreamlike, and yet… the man before him was better than his imagination was capable of concocting.

The vague notion that this moment was too good to be real was like a strange, disinhibiting haze that settled over Anders, subduing his insecurities until they retreated into the mist.

With coordination that would have surprised him, were he not otherwise absorbed, Anders stood, took a step forward, and perched lightly on the warrior’s thighs. He looked down at the face that had haunted his dreams, now mere inches away and gently, reverently, he lifted a hand to brush Fenris’s snowy bangs away from his eyes. He trailed his fingers lightly down the warrior’s cheek and traced the outline of his damnably perfect lips. Fenris watched him silently, bewildered or intrigued.

Anders closed his eyes and leaned down, his head rotating slowly from side to side as he grazed his nose, his lips, in feather-light brushes against Fenris’s. He breathed the warrior’s breath. “ _Maker_ , I want you so badly,” he whispered.

Anders felt a tentative hand alight on his hip, followed shortly by the second. His eyes flickered open, trying to read the mind behind those mossy depths.

He didn’t have to, as Fenris made his intentions clear when he gripped Anders’ waist more firmly, pulling his hips down and forward until he was tightly caged in the warrior’s lap. “Then do something about it,” Fenris growled. “It has been more than a full day.”

Almost as if in a trance, Anders watched Fenris’s hand leave his waist, reach up. With disciplined restraint that only hinted at roughness, the warrior threaded his fingers through Anders’ damp hair and pulled, closing the scant distance between their lips.

Heart pounding, nerves over-sensitized like a million tiny livewires, Anders returned the kiss with bruising pressure. Sensation flooded his mind in a torrent; the yielding softness of the warrior’s lips, the taste of crisp apples and a hint of foxmint, the heat of his breath on Anders’ two-day stubble. Anders was intoxicated; he had wanted this for so long that every tiny detail seared itself into his mind.

Anders had no restraint left. He impatiently coaxed his way into Fenris’s mouth, sliding his tongue alongside the warrior’s while his hands were busy seeking out every inch of flesh he could touch. He raked his fingertips through the diabolically soft hair at the base of Fenris’s scalp and up to the crown of his head, lightly traced the long blades of his ears, then curled his fingers to drag his nails lightly down the back of his tanned neck.

Every time Anders pulled back to take a breath, the inexplicable woodsy scent that lingered on Fenris’s skin filled his senses. That it was currently mingled with the musk of male sweat and arousal made it all the more potent an aphrodisiac.

Anders groaned, an unabashed mix of bliss and longing. Fenris’s hips rolled in response. His long, calloused fingers dug in with firm pressure as he massaged down Anders’ backside atop the thin barrier of threadbare britches. 

Anders then got the incomparable view of Fenris’s powerful shoulders bunching as he cupped the curve of the mage’s ass and rocked him forward, grinding against him with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips until a steady rhythm emerged. The pressure was both too much and not enough for Anders’ rapidly swelling erection. “Yes,” he gritted against the warrior’s mouth, “Oh Maker, yes…”

Inflamed and overwhelmed by the fervent kisses, by the casual displays of the warrior's surprising strength, Anders released Fenris's lips and tilted his head down until he rested his brow against the elf's. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “ _Maker,_ Fenris… I could make out with you for hours,” he crooned, voice thick and shaky.

Fenris exhaled in a huff that sounded like agreement. Anders was trying to think of a way to ask if they should relocate to the bedroom, but when he opened his mouth, he lost his breath entirely - forced from his lungs on a cry of pleasure as Fenris lifted a hand and brought it back to his ass with a light but audible slap.

Fenris pulled back at that cry. The look he gave Anders could only be described as predatory. With a shake of his head and a choked curse, he tilted his head, recapturing the mage’s lips.

The warrior readjusted his grip, and before Anders realized what was happening, Fenris fluidly hoisted him. Anders’ legs immediately wrapped around the warrior’s waist, arms circling his neck to keep Fenris’s lips captive. In moments, he was perched on the table, moaning and squirming in Fenris’s embrace.

Anders felt hands about his waist, and then Fenris was sliding his hands up beneath his undyed, roughspun tunic.

His thoughts jarred out of their lust-filled stupor at that. He wrapped his hands around Fenris’s, dropping his head to pant for breath. At last, he found words. “Wait… just a second. I need to tell you something.” Anders kept his head down, rubbing circles into the backs of the warrior’s hands with his thumbs as he continued, “It’s more a warning. I have… scars. Lots of them. I can keep my shirt on, if you…” He finally looked up, searching the warrior’s expression for signs of doubt.

There wasn’t any. Fenris’s pupils were blown wide, his eyes trained on Anders’ kneading thumbs, his lips slightly parted. He looked up at Anders with an expression of bafflement. “Keep your shirt on?” he breathed, voice ragged. “What nonsense is this? Do you wish to stop?”

“Maker, _no._ Fuck, Fenris, I _need_ you. I just… didn’t want it to be a surprise.”

Fenris frowned. With a stubborn set to his jaw, the warrior slid his hands back beneath the hem of Anders’ tunic, lifting it up until the mage ducked his head free of the garment. Slowly, with deliberate movements and intense scrutiny, Fenris traced his fingers up, avoiding the shiny, welted burn on the mage’s sternum. His fingers traced and lingered on the faint, irregular pucker left by amateur stitches across the catastrophic chest wound.

Anders kept his head down, unable to meet the warrior’s eye; he could practically feel when Fenris’s gaze caught on the hashmark scars across the back of his neck. Calloused hands wove under Anders’ arms to glide slowly along the veritable topographic map that was his back. Fenris closed his eyes, as if he were reading the lines with his fingers. The exploration was delicate but painstaking, deliberate, his heavy breaths the only sound in the room.

At length, he trailed his fingers down Anders’ back, across his hips. He pressed harder as his palms slid up the mage’s flushed chest. He paused at the burn, then reached down to draw Anders’ hand up to cover it. “Heal this,” he demanded.

Anders complied with a flash of pale blue light. Fenris gave a nod of approval and again kneaded his way up the mage’s firm chest. When he reached Anders’ shoulders, the warrior lightened his touch, tracing up the sides of his neck with teasingly light strokes of his fingertips that made goosebumps prickle up Anders’ arms.

And that apparently settled the matter, in the warrior’s mind.

He wanted to think on Fenris’s reaction, but his desperation to feel every inch of the lissome elf overrode his habit of obsessive thought. Indeed, all thought ceased when Fenris grasped a handful of the honeyed ginger hair on one side of Anders’ head and pulled, exposing his neck to the warrior’s laving tongue and nibbling teeth. He dipped his tongue in the V between Anders’ collarbone and neck, then nipped at his clavicle, while his other hand slid down his thigh.

Anders captured the hand in his hair, pulling it to his mouth to press suckling kisses against Fenris’s palm. His head titled, lips parting to envelop the lyrium-branded pointer finger.

Fenris’s whole body tensed, then shivered as Anders obscenely sucked and worshiped the digit, while his hips maintained an enthusiastic grinding rhythm against the rock-hard bulge in Fenris’s pants.

The reward was a rich, rumbling moan that spilled from Fenris’s lips like lava pouring from deep in the belly of a volcano.

It was a siren song to Anders; he bobbed his head, sucking the finger deeper into his mouth and lapping the pad with his tongue. Flickering glances up at the warrior revealed that Fenris was watching with a wolfish, hungry expression.

He was turning _himself_ on with the shameless show, and even better, Fenris’s breath started to come in shallow, rapid pants.

It was one of the most erotic things Anders had ever heard. He’d never before witnessed the warrior out of breath; not in his duel with Hawke, not after long hikes or serious wounds. The knowledge that he had elicited those ragged, panting breaths was like a jolt of electricity straight to his groin.

Hummed moans slipped heedlessly from Anders’ lips, causing them to vibrate lightly; he couldn’t contain them, not in his current state of mindless, needy worship. He could only pant and watch, entranced, as Fenris slowly removed his finger, dragging it over his lower lip and down his chin.

He stifled a shout when he felt the warrior’s teeth nibble at his earlobe, felt his hot breath against his neck. “The sounds you make, mage,” Fenris growled before returning his attentions to Anders’ mouth. “ _Fasta vass,_ the things I wish to do to you…”

Anders swooned. All at once, he couldn’t stand the clothes between them. With a hissed curse, he stood up, pulling Fenris with him, and walked him backwards until the warrior’s back was pressed against a wall. He fumbled with the dozen bronze toggle clasps on Fenris’s sleeveless black tunic, unwilling to pull his lips away to see what he was doing; thankfully, the elf reached up to assist.

In short order Fenris was shrugging out of his tunic, and Anders had to pull back and stare, slack jawed. “Maker…” he breathed. Even in his richest fantasies, Fenris’s form had not been so dangerously alluring as he was in truth. His musculature was taut, sinewy; angular but not bulky. His proportions were masculine but lithe. _Maker,_ even the tattoos – which usually filled Anders with righteous outrage – were absolutely stunning against the tanned canvas of the warrior’s lustrous, smooth skin.

Fenris plucked and pulled at his hips impatiently, but Anders was awestruck. He reached a hand up reverently, hovering over the warrior’s chest, afraid to touch perfection.

“Fenris… _Maker,_ Fenris…”

Anders trailed off. His brain short-circuited. Later, he would blame this on the heat and sleep deprivation, but truthfully, he was drunk on Fenris. His wits were addled. Months of tension and pining - not to mention the intensely stimulating makeout - whirled together into a strange, infatuated aggression that poured out of him in a moaned exclamation. “Seriously?! Fuck you! Who looks like that??” he blurted. “I mean… seriously… Fenris! You are _stunning._ ”

The warrior jerked his head up at the first exclamation, but his surprise morphed into looks of confusion, put-upon amusement, and finally a snorting chuckle. “I shall take that as a compliment. You say what’s on your mind, I will give you that.”

Anders stood there, panting, staring, for longer than he was proud of. “Sweet Andraste, I want to taste every inch of you. I want to spend a week in your bed just exploring you, finding out what makes you twitch, or moan, or whether you’re ticklish, or whether you have any freckles…” Anders could hear himself rambling, but he was honestly too far gone to care.

He paused to swallow, his voice growing husky as he continued, “And yet, I also don’t want to wait. I want you, Fenris, desperately. I need you inside me. Right now.” He palmed his aching cock, trying to find a more comfortable position in his constricting breeches. “I know it’s poor form to just say that, but I’ve wanted you for so long…”

Fenris huffed, pulling Anders’ hand to drag him closer and silence his flustered rambling. He stared at the mage’s lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, and murmured, “You men who were born free… you love to inflict decisions where no choice is necessary.” He paused for a kiss. “I will fuck you, then you may explore. Come,” he added, walking backwards towards the door without releasing the mage’s lips.

Anders nearly did. _Maker, that voice. Those words, in that voice._

He followed the warrior through the great hall, their kiss broken only for choked curses and brief navigational glances. Anders’ fingers fumbled with the clasp of Fenris’s belt, but frequently got distracted to stroke the warrior’s back, sides, down his thighs, unable to keep his hands off the other man.

Fenris pressed him against the wall at the top of the landing and kissed him possessively. When the warrior again began pulling him towards the bedroom, Anders’ belt had been entirely removed, and the drawstring on his breeches untied. _Sorcery,_ his lust-addled mind supplied.

By the top of the stairs, Fenris had released the clasp of his own belt, letting it fall as he spun Anders and pressed a hand firmly between his shoulder blades. Anders found himself partially bent over the railing, moaning as Fenris leaned against his naked back. A low growl sounded in his ear, followed by a ragged, dangerous voice. “You are certain you want this?”

Anders’ knees buckled; he braced his forearms on the railing for support. “Yes. Fuck, Fenris, yes I want this.”

He felt Fenris tugging on the sides of his britches, easing them down over his hips. At last, his tortured cock broke free of its prison; his hips bucked involuntarily, his erection slapping against his lower belly before bobbing down to jut from his body. The swollen head, nearly purple with need, left a small wet streak on his abdomen from the precum that virtually streamed from it.

He heard a choked groan, then felt the warrior grind his clothed bulge up the cleft of his ass in an agonizingly slow roll of his hips. “Do you keep any form of lubrication with you?” Fenris growled, breath hot on the back of Anders’ neck.

Addled, Anders cast about furtively. “What’s in those barrels over there?” he asked, jerking his chin towards a pyramid of three large casks beneath a painting to right of Fenris’s door.

“Sun Blonde,” came the bemused reply.

“Wine? That works.” Anders gave a distracted flick of his hand; the uppermost cask rocked as though struck, the contents sloshing wildly within.

Fenris peeled himself off Anders’ back long enough to cautiously approach the cask. When he flicked the tap, a clear, thick liquid poured from it. He looked over his shoulder with an arced brow. “An entire cask, mage?” Anders huffed impatiently, turning to watch the warrior but too far from rational thought to explain how grease spells worked.

“Do you think it will be enough?” the rasping voice deadpanned.

“For now,” Anders shot back, flustered. He should have felt self-conscious, something in the back of his mind registered. He was, after all, leaning against the banister in the middle of the main hall, panting, britches around his ankles, sporting an achingly hard erection. And yet, the look in Fenris’s eye when he turned back, palm full of glistening oil, was so wolfish, so ravenous, that Anders couldn’t be bothered with embarrassment.

The elf stormed back to him and spun him back around with a quick tug on his hips. He cried out, voice echoing through the main hall, when he felt Fenris sink down and bite the meaty curve of his ass.

Warm, oiled hands followed the nip, smoothing up the flesh of his reddened backside with firm strokes. Anders couldn’t contain a choked sob when a greased finger slipped down his sacrum and delved between his cheeks to lightly circle his puckered hole. His head dropped, eyes squinted shut. He bit his lip to keep from begging the warrior for more; he was already so aroused, it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge at this rate.

Slowly, remarkably gently, the warrior pressed a finger past the tight ring and rotated his wrist, spreading the oil. Anders sagged, gasped; his reservations melted away like an ice cube on a blacksmith’s forge. Without thought, his hips rolled, sinking deeper on the invading digit, as Fenris’s name rolled off his lips like a paean.

He heard a breathless chuckle. “So eager…” followed by panting breaths as Fenris removed his finger, only to replace it with another – his middle finger, Anders guessed. This time, the warrior seated his finger all the way in with one smooth motion, until all his remaining fingers curved to a fist that dug deeply into the flesh of Anders’ cheeks. 

He couldn’t get enough. He arched his back, driving himself deeper on the invading finger with unabashed craving, breathless pants interrupted only by long, low moans and sharp, whining gasps. Then Fenris added a second finger, and Anders had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out at the heady mix of discomfort and pleasure.

When the warrior curved his fingers and pressed down, stroking his prostate with each thrust, Anders’ knees buckled.

He turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Fenris was biting his lip, and when he looked up to meet Anders’ gaze, his eyes were hooded and feral. His body rocked with the motion of his fingers in Anders’ ass, and something else… Anders’ line of sight was limited, but he could see the warrior’s bicep flexing rhythmically.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, he’s jerking off…FUCK that is so hot…_

Anders gritted his teeth, lashing out desperately with a tiny flare of frost magic across his shaft; the thought of Fenris stroking himself nearly tipped him over the edge, but he would be damned if this ended before it truly began.

Though he was no longer dangling at the looming precipice of orgasm, the barrage of sensation continued to batter against his tenuous grasp on control. _More. I need_ more.

It came out as a strangled cry of, “Fenris, please!”

“Please, what?” Fenris rasped. “Tell me what you want. Ask for it.”

Chest heaving, hips bucking against the invading digits, he could barely find the breath to beg, “Want you… want you inside me…” he dropped his head on his forearm to muffle a cry.

“Fenris, _please…_ I need…need you. Take me until I can’t come anymore, fuck me until I pass out… ”

In a flurry of movement, Fenris stood and spun Anders to face him, pressing their lips together as he once again hoisted him. And then somehow he was in Fenris’s room, being tipped backward into Fenris’s bed. The warrior leaned back to hook his fingers in the waist of leggings that were bunched just below his hips and pull them down; Anders propped himself up on his elbows to stare avariciously, legs still wrapped around the elf’s thin waist.

The warrior was hairless, with two sets of mirrored lyrium brands tracing down from his abdomen. The first set arced inward and back out, like inverted iliac crests; the second terminated with an intricate filigree mere inches above the base of his cock.

Which was… much thicker than Anders had expected. The swollen length was average in size - an inch or so less than Anders himself – but the girth was… Anders swallowed thickly, unable to look away, even as his mind distantly noted that Fenris’s struggle with his britches was much less graceful than usual.

Something about that was like a shot of adrenaline to Anders. It finally seemed real to him. Any sign of clumsiness to Fenris’s actions was a clear indication that the warrior was as desperate as he was.

His thoughts were interrupted; Fenris was pressing firmly on Anders’ belly with one hand, while the other snaked down to guide himself to Anders’ entrance.

“Look at me, Anders.”

Anders’ eyes shot up – _he said my name -_ and met Fenris’s gaze. He held that gaze, taking slow and deliberate deep breaths as the warrior slowly but firmly sank forward.

The eye contact broke as Fenris’s thick head slipped past the snug ring of his entrance. Fenris looked down with a gutteral groan, while Anders arced back on the mattress with a hissed curse. He hadn't been penetrated in so many years, but his body still remembered the numerous relaxation techniques he had learned during short, furtive trysts in the Circle.

“Shit, shit… you’re… ah!… bigger than I expected…”

But this wasn’t like his brief, fumbling experiences in the Circle at all. “Anders. Look at me,” Fenris urged. The mage looked up as Fenris pulled his hips back, slipping from Anders’ tight passage. With an inscrutable look, he leaned in to kiss the immediate protest off Anders' lips while stroking more oil over the tip of his shaft. “Peace,” he growled. “I am not finished with you yet.”

The second time he pressed in was much smoother, though the circumference was still more than Anders could recall accommodating, even when he wasn’t so out of practice.

The third time the warrior pulled out, slicked up, and pressed back in, the discomfort faded in favor of searing need. He arched his hips up and pressed his legs against the warrior’s waist, trying to pull him deeper.

Fenris propped himself up on his arms, scanning Anders eyes. “More?” the elf panted.

Anders bit his lip and nodded fervently, hips rolling insistently against Fenris’s.

Again Fenris splayed his hand out over Anders’ abdomen, his eyes locked on the mage’s as he began to sink home slowly but inexorably. Anders could feel every inch of heavy girth bury itself inside him - and maintaining eye contact with Fenris throughout felt like the most intimate experience of his life.

At some point he felt the elf’s engorged head drag over his prostate and his head thrashed to the side involuntarily. At this the warrior paused, but Anders frantically reached down to grip his backside and pull him deeper. “Fuck yes… augh, don’t stop,” he choked out. “I don’t…I don’t know how long I’ll last.” 

Fenris leaned forward, hair falling across his face as he placed his cheek next to Anders’. “Grip your cock… hard, about the base….” he growled between heavy breaths. “Do not come yet. I will not stop if you do.”

 _Oh Maker,_ Anders thought. That voice, command dripping from his tone like the small river of precum that dripped Anders’ tortured cock...

He did as ordered, gripping himself firmly, though he had been on the edge for too long to be sure it would work.

Fenris kept a slow, implacable rhythm, and Anders began to writhe, plucking and pulling at his hips, pulling with his legs, bearing down on his shaft, trying to unravel the warrior’s regimented discipline.

Anders himself was slowly unraveling - driven mad by the tightly coiled restraint that Fenris seemed capable of maintaining indefinitely - when he noticed the warrior’s eyes were closed, his entire body rigid with tension.

Anders honed in on that. “More,” he begged, voice breaking with urgency. “Please, Fenris… please…”

Fenris paused, fully buried in the mage’s slick, open body, and lifted a hand to Anders’ chin. He held his gaze. “You are certain? I do not wish to harm you.”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain…shit, I want… I need…"

Fenris stared a moment longer. “Very well. Say “stop” if it is too much.”

Anders had no words to describe the experience. All the warrior’s tightly coiled control fell away, and Anders’ entire world was reduced to the unrelenting, insatiable pounding of hips, the heavy girth of Fenris’s shaft hammering him into the mattress with an urgency indistinguishable from ferocity.

Anders’ head thrashed on the mattress; sobs of ecstasy poured from his mouth. When Fenris leaned back slightly, the angle shifted so that each thrust seemed to pound against Anders’ prostate. He came undone with a wail, back arching off the bed as the orgasm tore through him.

Anders released his death grip on the base of his shaft as his seed shot out, splattering across his chest and belly. He felt like his brain shattered into a thousand pieces, lost on the waves of an all-consuming peak, and still the warrior continued to rut into him with unrelenting force.

Fenris leaned forward, propping Anders’ knees up and spreading his legs wider, his breath ragged and his pupils blown wide. He leaned in to bite the mage’s neck, eliciting a sharp cry as Anders’ awareness abruptly returned to his body.

He was overstimulated, the pace was too much, the climax too powerful…and yet, the sight of Fenris laboring above him was so intoxicating; the heady smell of his sweat and musk, the obscene sound of flesh slapping flesh…despite the orgasm, his cock was hard as ever.

He repeated the warrior’s name over and over – begging for Fenris to stop, or for him to continue, he wasn’t sure – and writhed under the elf.

Fenris’s pace never slacked. At some point the intolerable stimulation shifted, and once again became an urgent need. This time, the pleasure triggered something in him that felt insatiable, a desperate, demanding, gnawing feeling like he would never get enough.

He felt something brush across his cheek, and then Fenris’s finger was pressing against his lips, seeking entry. Anders was desperate to comply, to suck and take everything the warrior would give him. He nearly gagged as he took the digit too far into his mouth, pulling back to lathe his tongue over Fenris’s calloused fingertip. The warrior pressed another inside his mouth, watching with a feral look as Anders bobbed his head wantonly on his fingers.

He felt breath on his ear, but was too distracted by the lewd slurping sounds as he mouth-fucked Fenris’s fingers to realize the warrior was saying something.

When he paused to choke in a breath, he realized that Fenris was chanting his name, over and over, in a breathless litany.

Anders’ whole body shivered at the realization. He forced his legs down to the mattress, causing the warrior to lean back and readjust his grip that had previously been propping the mage up. With newfound leverage, Anders lifted his hips to meet each stroke, thrusting up to meet the elf with wild abandon that caused his rigid cock to slap his belly with each thrust.

Fenris couldn’t contain a long, ragged moan. Anders couldn’t take it anymore. He needed.

He wrapped a firm fist around his cock, holding the other poised above Fenris’s ass. He gave the elf a pleading look.

A hint of uncertainty crossed the warrior’s face, but it passed with a growl as he shifted his hips, trying to wreck Anders a second time before he crested.

Anders brought his hand down to grip the straining curves of Fenris’s ass, while simultaneously releasing a tiny electrical current through his fingers. The technique was perfected to be harmless; instead of pain, it sent a shudder through both men that caused muscles to seize as though suddenly submerged in a pond of frigid snowmelt.

Fenris yelped as Anders clenched around him. The warrior’s pace stuttered, eyes widening, chest heaving. He stared at Anders for a long moment before resuming his pace, though Anders distantly noted that his frantic, brutal movements lacked the precision of earlier.

“Again,” he growled, voice ragged, dangerous.

Anders complied. This time his back arched up off the bed as the current tickled every nerve in his body simultaneously – he could only imagine how it felt for Fenris. The warrior collapsed on top of him, a shrill desperation in that gritty voice as he whispered, “Again, Anders. Do it again.”

Fenris's hips slammed into him as if on springs, driving the mage into the mattress in time to his labored breaths. Anders gave his agonizingly sensitive cock a few quick tugs, edging himself just to the precipice, before he gripped the elf’s muscled ass with both hands and released a third current.

Anders’ mind disconnected. Distantly, he felt the warrior bury his head in Anders’ shoulder, heard his muffled shout. He felt thick streams of seed that poured from his slit in waves, over and over, pooling around his shaft. He felt the heat in his belly as Fenris likewise erupted inside him, a heavy, searing ocean that seemed to fill him from the inside.

He drifted in a haze of euphoria, unable to make sense of the disconnected sensations.

Fenris eventually slumped down atop him. The pleasure consumed time, rendering it meaningless as he drifted, buried in the warmth that was Fenris.

At some point, the feeling of Fenris dazedly trying to roll off him roused him from the fog of ecstasy. He wrapped his arms around the warrior, not wanting their bodies to separate just yet. “Stay,” he croaked.

The only reply was an insensible grunt, but Fenris stilled.

They lay there, panting, drifting, for a long time.

Anders must have dozed; the next thing he was aware of was Fenris pushing himself up off the mattress, his softened cock slipping out from between his cheeks, warm seed slowly dripping out of him.

Anders was preparing to steel himself to stand and leave when Fenris slid back down beside him. He tiled his head up and to the side, looking at the warrior, unable to form words. Fenris looked back, equally silent. Then Fenris lifted an arm and wrapped it around his shoulder, urging him closer with a gentle pull.

Anders rolled to his side, eyes misted with bliss, and rested his head on the warrior’s lean, muscled chest.


	16. Tershiron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic depictions of violence (potentially exceeding what is typical for canon) after the first horizontal line.

The sun was streaming in through the arrowslit windows when he roused again.

Fenris had somehow extricated himself and pulled his britches on without waking Anders. The warrior was standing with an arm braced rigidly against the mantle, the sinewy muscles of his back coiled with tension. His shoulder blades moved laterally with his shallow, rapid breaths, and a dewy sheen of sweat glistened in the slanted rays of light.

Anders came fully alert as icy tendrils of fear blossomed in his belly; the seemingly innocuous posture, belied by the tension that so obviously thrummed through the warrior, was more worrisome than waking up to a Templar raid. It triggered his Circle reflexes.

 _Alright, so, he’s panicking. Never try to reason with panic. Or block the exits._ The words of the First Enchanter trickled back to him with surprising ease given all the years that separated them from this moment.

_I wonder what the Circle would think, if they knew how little of their training was used to defend against demons. Though, Irving would probably just laugh if he knew all those hours of instruction were being used to analyze my elven lover’s body language._

He sat up slowly, carefully, as one might move around a prized stallion in a pen with an open gate. Fenris clearly needed to be alone; Anders regretted most of the decisions he had made, and words he had said, when he was as distressed as the warrior appeared to be now.

He couldn’t remember where his clothes had been discarded, so he wrapped his waist with one of several throws bunched at the foot of the bed and eased himself up. 

Fenris turned at the creaking of the bedframe as he stood, looking at him through disheveled bangs with wide eyes and a harried strain to his jaw. Anders flashed a quick, cheerless smile before turning to the door. “I’m going to take a bath, then make some… breakfast, I guess?” He realized he had no idea what time it was. “Come on down if you get hungry.”

* * *

His mind raced in circles throughout the much-needed bath, and by the time he dressed and traipsed down to the kitchen, he had convinced himself of a score of increasingly improbable things: Fenris had not intended him to sleep over; he regretted the decision to become physical with a mage; the compulsion was altered with a strange time delay, and only required compliance equal to one tenth of each command, so Fenris walking next to him was not sufficient proof that it didn’t exist; Anders had actually dreamed the entire thing.

As an unwelcome side effect of being so worried, odd memories had begun to filter up during his bath. He saw brief, vivid images of his last moments with Karl, and the look on his mother’s face as the Templars dragged him away from his childhood home. A line from the Canticle of Threnodies kept ringing in his ears, though he hadn’t recited the Chant of Light since he was a young boy, before his powers had manifested.

_Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting._

With a sigh, Anders decided to follow the advice his mind seemed intent to force upon him. He would marvel, and he would not allow the perfection of their time together to be tarnished simply because it might not last.

He hauled up a dozen small apples from the root cellar and hung a medium cauldron over the fire that sprang to life with an impatient flick of his fingers. A skin of water poured into the cauldron filled it about halfway; he left it to boil while he cored and sliced apples. The repetitive work was meditative, soothing.

The apple slices went into the pot, along with a spoonful of flour, a tiny pinch of salt, a generous slice of butter, and an overflowing mug of brown sugar. After a cursory glance in the warrior’s pantry, he emerged with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, which he ground in the mortar and remanded to the pot as well.

He was mixing ingredients for pancakes when he realized he had made enough food for a small army. Right as he thought of it, his stomach gave a loud, gurgling protest at the lateness of the meal; he scolded it for sneakily taking over the measurements when he wasn’t looking.

Wispy tendrils of steam rose from the bubbling pot, pooling condensation on the iron griddle he had balanced precariously on top of the cauldron. The griddle was just narrow enough to fit between the arms of the cauldron’s heavy iron handle, but it was much longer, extending past the mouth of the cauldron like a see-saw. He spooned batter in little circles across the entire surface.

Fenris’s hearth didn’t have a heating tray, so he had resigned himself to manhandling the griddle off the top of the cauldron and healing whatever burns he incurred.

It seemed like no time had passed before the fluffy cakes were golden brown. He took a deep breath. _Alright, you wanker. You can do this._ Holding flimsy rags in both hands as his only protection, Anders grit his teeth and reached in, sliding the griddle between the cauldron’s handle. Almost immediately the heat penetrated the rags, and he had to fight his body’s instinctive reflex to snatch his hands away from the searing heat for every moment of the short scramble to the table.

The sight of someone standing in the door provoked a reflex he couldn't fight; he startled, stumbling, tray flipping over in front of him as he tripped forward.

“Nononono!” he shouted, holding his hand out as he fell.

A ripple surged through the still air of the kitchen, emanating from a complex web of force magic that sprung instinctively from his fingers. Immediately on the tail of the shockwave, a small, faintly glowing sphere enveloped the griddle, exerting varied force in every direction.

The pancakes hung, suspended, half a foot off the ground, while Anders landed awkwardly on his knees and a forearm. 

The effort and mana required to control omni-directional force so precisely was enormous, which was why he hadn’t used such a spell in the first place. As soon as he regained his footing, Anders snatched the griddle, darting it through the air to catch each circular cake as it dropped when his magic receded.

Gingerly, he deposited the hot griddle on the table and sent targeted waves of healing magic over the worst of the burns.

At last, he looked up.

The form he had assumed was Fenris standing in the doorway was, in fact, not Fenris.

The elven man’s dark hair was shaved nearly bald, for one thing, and he was dressed in charcoal black, intricately embroidered robes unlike any Anders had seen before. The man’s chest was almost entirely exposed, save for a large gold ring that attached a collar between his feathered pauldrons to the bodice of the robes. The staff held loosely at his side split at the top, branching into two long, sinuous snakes that entwined and met at the tip so each mouth supported half of the onyx focusing gem that rested between them.

For another thing, this man stood with a relaxed air of aloof confidence. Unlike Fenris, who frequently slouched under the weight of a lifetime of torture and servitude, this man lounged, the arrogant ease of a peak predator radiating from his languid posture.

He stepped into the room, clapping slowly. “A fine trick, that. Many an apprentice would struggle to exert the proper balance of force required for such a show. Yet you fling such spells like a monkey flings feces, and with as little thought.”

Anders bristled, surprise morphing into a snarl as he surveyed the intruder. Already, the other man’s scolding, pedantic tone grated against his nerves, and he didn’t have the patience to feign ignorance. There was only one plausible explanation for a strange mage to appear in the mansion’s kitchen.

“You can leave, now, empty handed, or you can die. Those are your options. Whatever you were told, Fenris is no longer vulnerable, and he is not a slave,” Anders warned.

“Oh, come now. Your impressive little display does not absolve you of the need for propriety. Surely you southern mages cannot be as simpleminded as rumors claim. Perhaps you are not stupid, but merely lacking in… respect,” the mage scolded.

As his words trailed off, Anders’s skin pricked with the raw chaos of the weave the elf formed, such was its power. Anders’ barrier flickered into existence a heartbeat later, then grew, solidifying with each additional plaited layer as he fleshed it out into a full arcane fortress.

The other mage gave a cavalier flick of the hand; the intruder’s spell shredded Anders’ fortress like tissue paper in a hurricane. The shockwave from so much compressed force magic rattled the very walls and sent nearby sacks and chairs flying.

When the spell made contact, Anders felt as if his entire body was suddenly gripped in the teeth of a vice. His feet left the ground with cruel deliberateness, dangling as the mesh of force lifted and suspended him in the air.

Against the crushing pressure, he couldn’t expand his chest to take a breath. His lungs were burning, eyes watering, ears popping against the invisible, bruising embrace. The fearsome power behind such a spell was utterly demoralizing; some part of him knew that was the point - to dispirit and humiliate.

Another effortless gesture from the robed elf. Pain seared through him like a thunderclap as the fingers of his left hand jerked backwards in unison, tendon and bone snapping as each finger folded back at the middle joint.

Agony. Blistering, blinding, white-hot pain. Through the white static of torment, an image floated to his mind, a scene he had witnessed during the Fifth Blight - an ogre holding a young woman aloft before casually snapping her in half like a twig.

And then Anders crumpled to the floor as the bubble of force vanished. He cradled his ruined hand while gasping for breath like a man rescued from the brink of drowning.

“Come now, you see? I am not an apprentice, little mage, and you will learn to show me due respect. I believe introductions are in order. My name is Tershiron. I am an… associate, to the rightful owner of your rebellious friend.”

“Too cowardly to show his face?” Anders wheezed through the pain. “You talk more than most, but you’re hardly the first of Danarius’s lackeys sent here to die in his place.” As he spoke, Anders struggled to his knees, left hand cradled awkwardly against his chest, while his awareness gingerly examined the snapped bones in his hand. Determining that the blood supply was intact, he summarily set the pain aside. There would be time for healing later.

Anders looked down, creating a backwards L shape with his right hand to act as a mental focus as he opened a gaping channel to the Fade. Despite his lack of staff, the bolt of lightning that forked through the room contained power of a magnitude many times greater than necessary to annihilate any barrier Tershiron could likely conjure; he had not honed his affinity for electricity merely for party tricks.

A herald of vicious storm winds had preceded the bolt by a heartbeat and continued to swirl for long moments after the blinding explosion faded, whipping his hair about his face and billowing his loose tunic. Anders harnessed the thrashing winds, hurling several shelves worth of pots, pans, and crockery at the pompous elf for good measure.

When he looked up, Tershiron had not moved, and more importantly, wasn’t reduced to cinders by the massive lightning bolt.

Tershiron held his hand up with a disappointed sigh; the various cookware dropped to the ground upon hitting the lazy counter of force magic the elf used to oppose Anders’ storm winds. The spell’s weave looked odd to Anders; it took him a moment to realize that it had originated a few feet outside of the elf… just outside the perimeter of a magic-negating dispel that rippled around the other mage like a shield.

 _Smart,_ Anders observed from a remote, detached place in his mind, outside the confines of the body that suffered so terribly and the despairing part of him that was quickly losing hope. _Better than a barrier for single combat against a mage. I will remember that._

“Well. I do believe I have made a good faith effort to be reasonable. I had hoped for a more civil discussion, but I see that the gossip has understated the case, if anything. You are too ignorant to see how different we are, you and I, and I cannot stand idly by whilst you impugn the good name of our mutual friend. Danarius has agreed to take me on as an apprentice when I return his property, did you know that? No, of course not. You could not comprehend the significance of my presence here. An elf, apprenticed to a Magister.” He paused, tapping his chin theatrically with a smug simper pulling at his lips. “Perhaps a sufficiently cowed southern mage might be the perfect gift to show my gratitude.”

Anders ignored the prattling; he was content to let the other mage waste time. His mana reserves were already low after the foolish exertion with the griddle, and without his staff or lyrium potions at hand, he could only rely on a tightly focused restoration spell to replenish his magical energy over time.

Dividing his focus still further, he set about summoning wisps, hiding them beneath the overturned pots and pans. Something the man had said…

A roaring sound alerted him just before the fireball exploded. The inferno lasted mere seconds, but Anders’ perception was of a plodding, frame-by-frame event that stretched interminably long due to the wealth of information, options, and decisions that flooded his mind.

His barrier flickered up in time, but the strength of the elf’s magic was cataclysmic. This man was far, far more powerful than Hadriana. Something about that tickled in the back of his mind, but he firmly set it aside, like a demon’s whisper, to be dealt with later.

His barrier couldn’t withstand the inferno, so he reconfigured it; he mentally plucked at the weave, collapsing here and reinforcing there. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air as his limbs were singed in the raw power of the flame, his barrier now concentrated to shield only his vital core.

Anders howled as the flames receded, unable to keep such pain contained inside himself.

Desperate, he lowered his mental walls to allow Justice to take control, terrified of being rendered a passenger in his own body, but equally terrified that he might actually be outmatched.

Nothing happened.

He wasn’t sure what else to do, so he tried to communicate with the being that shared his body – though, they hadn’t really ‘talked’ since the days before and immediately following their joining. _Justice, please! You can’t allow them to take Fenris back to Tevinter – they’ll kill him!_

Justice didn’t surge to the forefront.

_He’ll kill me! Us!_

Silence. He was on his own.

Frantic, Anders redoubled his efforts to summon wisps. Countless tiny lights crossed the Veil, swirling into existence where he summoned them, hidden beneath the cookware.

Tershiron shook his head, brows knitted. “Tsk, tsk, what are you up to, little mage? I see you weaving something, but, for the life of me, I cannot fathom what makes you think you can resist me.” With a dismissive wave, he sent Anders hurling backwards; he crashed against the far wall of the kitchen with a sickening thud.

Anders fell forward. Dazed, he curled in on himself, turning his head down as a surge of bile was forcibly ejected from his stomach.

The elf strode forward, sheathing his staff and dropping his shield. “Now, shall we go collect the slave and be on our way? I would hate to break you too grievously; Danarius’s research will suffer if you are too damaged.”

Anders spit blood and bile, unable to move, unable to take but the shallowest breath. He mentally probed down his ribcage; two broken ribs, one hairline fracture, lungs intact. Contusions down his back, no damage to the cord, small compression fracture consistent with whiplash in the axis vertebrae.

His gaze flicked up to Tershiron. His jaw clenched. His lips moved.

“What was that, little mage?” the elf said, leaning forward.

“I said, Fenris is not a slave.”

Anders released his mental grasp on the dispel he had placed over the pots and pans; dozens of tiny wisps flared with purpose, each carrying within it a targeted mana drain spell. As the dispel receded, each wisp simultaneously released their spell upon the elf.

_How different we are, you and I._

That was the piece of the puzzle he had been missing with his wirium barrier. An elemental shield was generalized; it protected any ally within range, so wisps holding the spell passed it on to anyone nearby. Imbuing a wisp with a barrier spell caused it to cast a barrier around itself, because the spell was targeted. Instead, he needed to treat each wisp like a staff; to focus the spell and pass it on to the rightful target.

Somehow, the antagonistic mage had impressed upon him the difference between a wisp holding a spell - receiving it - and a wisp focusing, relaying a spell.

Tershiron staggered forward, falling to his knees as Anders so frequently had himself when faced with a Smite or a Silence. The complete loss of mana was a jolting experience for any mage, like suddenly losing the ability to touch, or hear.

Anders scraped the depths of his exhausted well to summon the energy for a reversed mana drain, siphoning magical energy from his own wisps. Even in spite of the decay that seemed inherent in the process, he felt the wave of energy wash over him like a soothing tide. He was careful to feed the wisps enough of that energy to keep their mana drain active; he would not underestimate Tershiron again.

Any other enemy would be easily neutralized by a simple paralysis or frost spell, but mages didn’t need their body to fight. Anders himself had been entirely encased in ice before; it was terrifying, and miserable, but it was not an impediment to touching the powers across the Veil. A part of him hated using that knowledge against a fellow mage; the larger part of him just wanted to survive.

The half of his mind trained by the Circle to think critically and analytically in a crisis wove a petrifying spell to entomb the other mage’s feet in stone; Maker only knew what other tricks mages were taught in Tevinter, and he didn’t want to take any chances of the elf fleeing or resorting to physical attacks. _Where was this abundance of caution earlier,_ his subconscious reprimanded.

The half of his mind trained by the brutality of the world knew, in precise detail, which injuries could be treated later and which were incapacitating. Anders reached out to the Fade, entreating his spiritual ally to help heal the fractured ruin of his left hand and the broken ribs that constricted his breathing.

Joints popped as his knuckles were pulled back into alignment. Ligament, muscle, bone and tendon knitted.

As soon as he could breathe and form a fist, Anders strode forward and pulled the staff from Tershiron’s back. It felt odious in his hands, like it was covered in a putrid oil that could somehow contaminate him.

“If I were a better man, I would send you back to Tevinter to warn that vile, loathsome eel of a Magister that he best deliver his next message in person.”

He could end this a dozen ways, with a dozen different spells, but he needed to preserve his mana. There was much healing to be done. And a dark, unexamined corner of his mind really just wanted to physically beat this monster, to exact retribution on the man who had been so close to returning Fenris to slavery. Only one other man deserved punishment more.

And yet… outside the heat of battle, killing this mage was indistinguishable from execution. Anders was dimly aware of a younger, less jaded voice in him that protested, insisted there had to be an alternative.

Noises drifted into the kitchen, what sounded like two or three pairs of footsteps from upstairs, crashing, curses; the sounds of fighting. _Fenris._

No. This had to end. Now. He crouched, looking the magicless mage in the eye. “I wish I were a better man.”

He lifted the staff over his shoulder, wielding it like a bat. His mind, seemingly of its own accord, stirred up disturbing images that spurred him into a fury: Fenris being dragged, chained and unconscious; the young, pregnant mage, clutching her throat; Fenris's brands; Karl's brand; the millions of mages and slaves left to rot beneath the heels of corrupt systems that replaced power with morality. Images of his own tortures were conspicuously absent.

The staff arced through the air with blinding speed. He heard himself screaming. He saw, in gruesome, minute detail, the moment the twin snake heads made contact, cracking the mage’s skull with a dull, fleshy crack that echoed through the kitchen. Tershiron’s eyes immediately dimmed, the light snuffed from behind them, as his body tipped over from the bludgeoning force.

Anders stared, chest heaving, as blood pooled in the crater that had formerly been the elf’s temporal lobe. He turned and, for the second time in mere minutes, his stomach heaved. There was nothing left to come out, but the dysphoria, the dizziness, the hot flashes - they all accompanied the nausea despite the lack of anything left to vomit.

 _I need to find Fenris_. There was no time for indulgences like queasiness and retching. He glanced down at the vile staff and was tempted to fling it as far away as he could manage, but paranoia made him hold on to it.

Anders stumbled towards the man hall, both exhausted by and desperately clinging to the adrenaline surge that buffered him against the pain of his maimed body. Unsure what awaited him upstairs, he cast the firmest barrier he could weave, and recast the modified elemental shield - just in case.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, hobbling as quickly as he could manage, when a familiar fringe of white hair stepped from the doorway of the master suite. Fenris took a step toward the banister, and Anders could at last look upon the warrior’s face; blood was dripping from a gash above his left brow, but otherwise he seemed intact.

Anders sagged in relief, finally letting the corrupted staff drop to the ground. The warrior heard the clatter and froze. His eyes were wild when they met Anders’. 

In a flash, Fenris leapt the banister, then bounded down from the landing in a few great leaps, halting inches away from him. There he hesitated, hands reaching out helplessly towards the mage.

Anders so desperately wanted to grab him, to hug him, to check him from head to toe and assure himself that the warrior was alive and well. Instead, he blurted, “Fenris! Thank the Maker, I was so worried… I thought they must have… and then I heard fighting…”

Fenris didn’t respond. Anders’ heart clenched as the warrior’s eyes roamed his wounds, landing first on the singed ruin of his britches and the burned skin of his legs, his arms, the swollen, purpling knuckles of his hastily triaged left hand, the drops of dried blood and bile on his tunic. At last, the elf looked up to meet his eyes, and visibly swayed on his feet.

“Mage…” Fenris’s voice broke. “Anders. What is the point of your magic if you will not heal yourself??”

Anders felt like his heart was trying to flutter out of its cage of ribs. It was the one of the most animated exclamations he had heard out of Fenris. Even in the heat of battle, when the rest of their companions (and he himself, come to think of it) were shouting threats or updates, Fenris was always calm, collected, and reserved.

“I… I healed the worst of it, I just wasn’t sure if there were more… if you were alright,” Anders protested weakly.

A dark cloud seemed to pass over Fenris’s face. “I am well. They are not,” he growled. “The mage? Does he live?”

Anders shook his head.

“Good,” the warrior spat. “He cast a spell. I could not move, could not even look around. But I could… I heard you scream,” he broke off, took a step back. “I must sweep the mansion, there may be others. And you must heal yourself.” A beat later, he added in a thick voice, “Please.”

Anders was all too willing to comply, now that he knew the warrior was safe. With the aid of good spirits, Anders began with a more thorough, concentrated repair to his hand and ribs, then turned the focused restoration to the compression fracture in his neck. After the worst injuries were fully treated, he released the boon of his spirit ally and summoned a spell wisp to help him more quickly tend the superficial but expansive burns to his limbs. He was just finishing up with the large contusions on his back when Fenris returned.

This time the warrior stopped a few feet away, looked him up and down, and then closed the distance between them in a stride to wrap him in a crushing embrace.

Stunned, Anders looked down at the snowy head on his shoulder. His eyes grew misty before he regained his wits and wrapped his arms around the elf, one hand tightly around his waist, the other snaking through silky white hair to cup the back of his head.

Finally, finally he could breathe again. He drew strength from the woodsy smell of Fenris’s skin, burying his cheek in the other man’s hair. 

“I heard you scream,” the warrior repeated into his shoulder, the muffled words so quiet as to barely reach his ears inches away.

“I’m sorry,” Anders soothed.

Fenris gripped tighter, his powerful shoulders seemingly intent on removing any space between them. Anders didn’t mind. He couldn’t remember a time when he had felt more relieved, or warmer, safer than he was right at that moment.

After what felt like years and no time at all, Fenris eased his grasp and stepped back a pace. He held Anders’ gaze for a few moments, shaking his head faintly with a drawn, worried expression.

Anders was too anxious for silence. “Are you..?”

“I am well.”

“Let me at least take a look - and heal that gash on your head.”

“It is a scratch.”

“I’ll feel better if you let me take a look, but… you can say no, of course.”

Fenris huffed in that wordless way he had of suggesting Anders was being dense. “If you must. On one condition.” He paused. “One… request.”

Anders hesitated. “A condition?”

“Rest. You need rest. And lots of food.”

Anders looked down with a weary grin, his eyes misting again. “Alright. Let me look at you. And then food. And rest.”


	17. Coping Mechanisms

Fenris’s cut was indeed small, though it bled profusely as head wounds were wont to do. Anders healed it with a deep regeneration spell to knit the skin from the bottom up, rather than from the sides, to prevent scarring.

The cauldron on the fire was simmering, the forgotten breakfast perfuming the air of the kitchen by the time Anders completed a thorough exam to ensure that no other harm had befallen the warrior.

The aftermath of the brief but calamitous encounter was surreal. Fenris had placed the elven mage’s body in a canvas sack, which was currently slumped by the main door with two other sacks, apparently belonging to mercenaries that had been upstairs guarding the warrior. Tershiron’s mana depletion had freed Fenris from the paralysis spell, and the two mercenaries were woefully inadequate to the task of restraining the Lyrium Ghost.

Anders had wrapped the vile staff in an inordinate quantity of canvas sacks, then hid it behind a wine rack in the cellar. Maker only knew if the thing might prove useful for research or desperate measures, and it couldn’t simply be sold, or tossed out for anyone to stumble across. _At least I know it can serve as an adequate club, should the need arise_ , Anders thought bleakly.

He and Fenris had spent a few minutes returning pots and pans to the pantry and sweeping up broken crockery. Anders was disturbed by how easily the wreckage was cleaned. Healing could not remove the memory of pain, and it just seemed like there should be more… evidence.

The battle, the adrenaline, the wounds – it all conspired to break his awareness of time into disjointed pieces, though, it surely didn’t help that his routine had been so thoroughly disrupted already. He had been awake almost the entire night, then pushed himself with too many Idos repetitions, experienced the apotheosis of sexual encounters, caught a few hours of sleep during daylight hours, nearly died, and was now eating breakfast as the light was beginning to soften into sunset hues. The whirlwind of peripety was disorienting.

It also felt as though days had passed since he had sliced apples for this very late breakfast. Yet no more than a quarter hour had gone by in actuality; the entire assault had not exceeded the range of an egg timer.

Anders was currently scrounging for intact dishes to serve breakfast on, and Fenris was watching him like he might spontaneously combust at any moment. Fenris was not pleased with his summary of events - “I almost dropped the pancakes and he just bloody appeared out of nowhere and attacked” - and so Anders resigned himself to a detailed account as he pulled out two shallow tin bowls from his camp mess kit.

He had only just started, describing the griddle incident, when the warrior interrupted. “Why did you not use the hearth mitts in the pantry?”

“…There are hearth mitts in the pantry?”

Fenris strode past him, opening a cabinet to reveal a pair of elbow-length leather mitts that had been dyed an appalling shade of pink. Anders stared at the mitts. Fenris stared at Anders.

“Seriously?” Anders snorted, incredulous.

Fenris scowled. “I admit they lack a certain… masculine appeal. And so do severe burns.”

“I don’t know, burns are manly, right?”

Fenris crossed his arms. “Not appealing.”

Anders looked down. All the burns were well and truly gone, both self-inflicted and otherwise; the combined efforts of himself and a wisp had rewound the clock. Red welts, pallid blisters, and blackened flakes had turned pink, then tawny, and finally returned to fully intact skin with hair and freckles. It fit the surrealism of his mood that his pants were burned off to the knee, the tunic to the elbows, yet healthy skin showed in their place.

He swallowed a bad pun about burns peeling – Fenris would see right through that – and quipped instead, “Well, perhaps not, but you can’t tell me some small part of you didn’t enjoy the idea of a mage searing himself like a porterhouse.”

“You do not seriously believe that.”

Anders’ gaze flicked up, hoping - but failing - to read anything in those mossy depths. He distracted himself by reaching for the heinous mitts. “Alright, I will use them, but you’re not allowed to look. Maker preserve me if this is the image that sticks in your mind…” he trailed off.

In short order, he had the cauldron off the fire and seated on a trivet on the table. He wasted no time in yanking off the aggressively pink mitts and tucking them back behind closed pantry doors. 

“Alright, you can turn around – ‘breakfast’ is served, and the protective equipment can no longer assault your eyes.” Anders took a slow breath. The scent of spiced apples wafted through the kitchen.

“The pancakes are ruined,” he lamented. The ill-fated victuals had been thrown far and wide in the magical blitzkrieg.

“A tragedy,” Fenris responded; Anders genuinely couldn’t tell if he was being facetious. The warrior retrieved a cloth-wrapped heel of bread from the pantry. “We have bread. Will bread suffice?” He sniffed the air, stepping closer to the cauldron. “What is this?”

“The Blessed Apple. Or so I was told. I learned it from a rather irreverent and possibly senile Chantry sister who frequently traveled between Ferelden and Orlais. It’s one of the few recipes I can remember – maybe because she told it to me in the form of a dirty limerick. And bread is better than nothing.”

Fenris furrowed his brow pensively; Anders could practically see the warrior’s gears turning, trying to think of anatomical rhymes for ‘apple’. He absentmindedly cut the bread in half, then flared his brands and held the bread into the fire, where it quickly crisped and browned.

Anders watched in amazement, ruminating on the physics of lyrium brands. _So, he can choose to touch material things, like his sword, or Hadriana’s heart, or slices of toast, or he can pass through them, like my clinic door, or Hadriana’s ribcage, or flames. I wonder how that works..._

When the slices were browned, Fenris plopped the toast onto the plates and rematerialized. Anders spooned thick, bubbling, caramelized apples over the bread. He took a seat, watching Fenris blow impatiently on the steaming apples.

The warrior finally took a bite, holding it in his mouth as his eyes closed. He breathed deeply, and just as Anders was about to ask if he burned his tongue, the warrior’s lips twitched up. “This recipe is acceptable,” he said with a tone of blissful reverence.

Anders kept his eyes on his plate, though he couldn’t contain a grin. He was disproportionately pleased to have remembered the perfect recipe to cook for Fenris.

“Will you instruct me in how to make this, this…Blessed Apple? The name is appropriate and should not be made light of.”

“Of course,” Anders said, swallowing a snort at the warrior’s mother hen tone. “It’s very easy. Especially if you have hearth mitts. Though, I should probably warn you, it’s quite likely that the name has some illicit entendre in Orlesian culture.”

Fenris hummed, and words were replaced by the clank of dishes, satisfied hums, the slosh of waterskins. Anders eventually continued his tale, without further interruption. It felt strange to relay the events to Fenris – most of the details were difficult to explain to someone without magic - and he couldn’t shake the disorienting feeling that the altercation had happened to someone else.

When he finished, he looked up to see Fenris watching him with that blank expression. “Danarius will not relent. We need to take measures to avoid predation in the future.”

Anders agreed. “I bet Izzy would be willing to help lay some traps, and I can bring up some of my tomes from the clinic – there are a lot of defensive enchantments, I just haven’t learned many. Truthfully, Merrill would probably be a good person to ask, but I don’t know if it’s worth having her magic lingering around…” His suspicions were confirmed when Fenris visibly cringed at the thought. “Let me do some research,” he concluded.

Fenris nodded in silent agreement. Quiet descended once again while Anders devoured his third helping. He couldn’t focus on defenses and didn’t want to think on the attack. He needed to rest, to give his body a chance to replenish resources that were burned off in the intensive healing process.

But he knew he couldn’t do that either, because an image kept invading his thoughts – the warrior braced against the fireplace, sweaty and roiling with tension. Anders desperately wanted to ask Fenris about the incident, and simultaneously, desperately didn’t want to know the answer. He bit his lip and remained silent.

Fenris was not as cowardly, and was apparently thinking the same thing. “About this morning.”

“Was it that bad?” Anders blurted, unable to contain the intrusive thought.

“I’m…sorry? Oh, you are referring to - oh, no. It’s not… it was fine.”

Anders struggled to keep from flinching as the word reverberated through his mind. Fine. fine. _fine. fiiiiiinnnneeeee._

“No, that is insufficient.” Fenris added, his tone switching from flustered to decisive on a dime. Anders could feel the warrior’s eyes boring into him, though he was unable to force himself to meet them. “It was better than anything I could have imagined. It was… extraordinary.”

Anders felt his shoulders hunch defensively, waiting for the “but” - though he took a page from Fenris’s book and kept his mouth shut.

Long moments passed in silence. “I began to remember my life before – just flashes. I’ve never remembered anything from before the ritual, but there were… faces. Words. For just a moment, I could recall all of it. And then it slipped away.”

 _His memories…?_ Anders thought, shaken. _How is that possible?_ This was shortly followed by a cascade of thoughts and emotions; he was unable to suppress a rising tide of hope and relief – _it wasn’t me -_ while simultaneously feeling guilty for feeling relief and, more than anything, feeling as though his heart would break for grief at Fenris’s turbulent recovery and subsequent loss of his stolen memories.

“I’m sorry – I feel like such a fool. This hate – I thought I’d gotten rid of it, but it dogs me no matter where I go.”

Anders immediately realized that the warrior’s speech patterns had shifted. He had grown so accustomed to his deep, cultured accent that eschewed contractions like they carried plague – what did it mean that Fenris used them now? 

“I can’t imagine how upsetting that must have been,” he ventured.

Fenris nodded, his gaze fixated on his empty tin bowl.

Anders paused, trying to find words to express his grief at Fenris’s loss that didn’t sound like pity; when nothing came to mind, he instead murmured, “If there’s anything that might help… I’m here.”

“I…” Fenris trailed off, lifting a shoulder in a quick half-shrug. “I am unsure what I need." His eyes flicked up briefly, catching Anders'. "Earlier, I - I needed to be alone. It was… overwhelming.” His gaze fell back down to the bowl. “I do not understand how, but apparently you already knew that. I am grateful.”

Anders forced a half-grin. “I must have gotten lucky. I’m, uh, pretty stupid when it comes to you, I think.”

Fenris’s puzzled look spoke volumes.

“I figured you were annoyed that I stayed… afterwards. Or you were trying to find a delicate way of saying I’m a terrible lay. Or that you got a good whiff of my morning breath and couldn’t get out of bed fast enough,” Anders rambled with strained laughter. He wasn’t sure why he had a habit of adding a couple self-deprecations on to cover up a true worry.

Fenris apparently recognized the bullshit for the distraction it was. “I enjoyed waking up beside you.” He paused, considering. “Though my arm was asleep. Your head weighs as much as the rest of you. It is likely too full of nonsensical attempts at mind-reading.”

“Your contractions are gone!”

Fenris’s head pulled back with a mildly offended look. “Excuse me?”

“I think you start using contractions when you’re upset. You usually say things like, ‘It is full of nonsensical attempts at mind-reading’ and ‘I do not condone the use of child labor’,” Anders said, chin tucked down, voice as deep as he could manage and still not even close to the warrior’s raspy baritone.

Fenris glowered at him. “I do not sound like –“

“That! You see?” Anders interrupted. His brows furrowed in an approximation of the glower as he mimicked, “Grumble, grumble, I do not sound like that.”

Fenris affected a wide-eyed, innocent look. He cleared his throat and, voice cracking, spoke in a breathy, thickly accented falsetto, “At least, well, look, at least I’m not apologizing to walls because I think too much and talk too much and I’m, ah, sorta terrified of anything that seems, uh, good. Or something.” 

“I don’t sound like –”

“I don’t sound like that at all, and you’re a churlish swine, and listen to all my fancy words.”

Anders was giggling after the second emphasized contraction, then nearly lost it at ‘churlish swine’. The sound of Fenris chuckling sent him over the edge.

He laughed until the wracking giggles morphed into a silent, breathless belly laugh, punctuated only by sharp inhales.

He managed to calm down long enough to gasp in some air, but the sound of Fenris taking a steadying breath, then snorting into another round of snickering sent Anders back into a fit. It was a strange blend of hysteria and release, an insane reaction to an insane day.

At length, his maniacal laughter trailed off into a few abortive chuckles, and finally he stilled, wiping tears from his eyes while catching his breath.

“Your Anders voice sounds more like a prepubescent Isabela,” Anders carped, followed by a residual snicker.

Fenris appeared to be struggling to maintain his equanimity. “Your Fenris voice is completely accurate.” 

“You think so?”

“No. I have never said ‘grumble, grumble’ in my life.”

Anders snorted, fending off a second fit. And, miraculously, Anders felt better for the mad diversion. He was alive, after all, and his belly was full. _And Fenris doesn’t hate me._

A yawn caught Anders unaware; the light had faded from the windows sometime during the meal, though the flickering fireplace gave the room a cheery glow. Fenris must have noticed the yawn; he stood and paced slowly towards the main hall with a decisive, “Come, you must rest.”

Anders snuffed the fire with a tiny gust of frost and followed a few paces behind as Fenris led the way up the stairs. “The master suite will require some repairs,” the elf said, passing the door. A quick glance through the door - which hung half off its hinges - suggested that ‘some’ was a bit of an understatement; most of the floor was covered in the splintered fragments of the bedframe, an abundance of feathers, and conspicuous blood stains.

“One of the beds in the third bedroom is still serviceable. I will switch it out in the morning. Should you need anything, that is where I will be.” With that he turned, avoiding eye contact.

“If…” Anders began awkwardly, then straightened and tried again. “The bed in my room is big enough for a family of four. I’d like it if you stayed… if you want to, of course.”

Fenris hesitated, turning his head into his shoulder without turning to face the mage. When he didn’t reply, Anders prodded, “What? Do I smell? I wasn’t planning to _sleep_ in these clothes, you know.”

“It is not the smell, although it would be a mercy to finish burning those clothes.”

“I’ll remand them to the fire as soon as you tell me what cat got your tongue and where is this cat and can I pet it?”

Fenris turned and glared at him. Anders mock-glared back before the expression dissolved into a weak smile.

When he spoke again, the tone of Fenris’s voice, soft and serious, had a sobering effect on Anders. “I should have been there. You should not have to fight my battles at all, but at the very least, I should have been there.” The warrior looked down at his feet. “The easiest fight is the one your enemy is unprepared for. I should not have become complacent.” When Fenris looked up, his brows were knitted, eyes sad, confused. “And I do not like the risks you take on my behalf. I am sorry for the harm I have invited upon you.”

Anders had questions, but this was not the time. “You were _paralyzed_ , and… it’s okay to feel things, Fenris. Anyone would have been overwhelmed by gaining and losing something as precious as your memories,” Anders argued. “And you didn’t bring me any harm. Tershiron did, and Danarius. Not you.” He shrugged. “Plus, hey, spirit healer and all…”

Fenris clearly heard him, but Anders could tell from his expression, and lack of reply, that he needed to think on those words. In fact, he could practically pinpoint the moment the warrior realized the same thing. So, instead, Fenris stealthily picked up the threads of a different conversation. He looked aside, frowning. “You need rest.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “I mean to rest. I may not be as smooth as I once was, but I’ll have to be offended if you think this is me trying to make a pass at you. I will even use a pillow this time, so my fat head doesn’t put your arm to sleep.”

Fenris gave him an inscrutable look. Slowly, cautiously, he returned to Anders’ door. “I did not mind.”

It was quite a different experience from the previous – well, from earlier that day. Anders felt strangely shy as he pulled off his filthy, burned, and bloody clothes. He slipped into a fresh pair of loose britches; he hadn’t worn clothing to bed in many years – assuming that nakedness could only even out the element of surprise if he were ever ambushed at night – but it seemed presumptuous with Fenris there.

He crawled into bed with his back facing the room, giving a semblance of privacy while the warrior stripped off his gauntlets, cuirass, pauldrons and boots. He felt the mattress shift as the warrior’s weight settled on it. All at once, Anders’ world shrank to the size of the bed; he was agonizingly aware of his own breathing – was it too fast, too loud? – and of every minute shift in the mattress.

He was beginning to wonder if the warrior was even alive, as Fenris’s breathing was inaudible, when that exquisite, gritty voice mumbled, “I really did not mind.”

In an instant, Anders rolled and scootched until he was curled against the warrior’s side. He nuzzled his head firmly against Fenris’s chest, breathed in the incongruous woodsy aroma, basked in the heat the warrior radiated. He felt the firm but pliant shoulder muscles beneath his head shift as Fenris circled him with his arm.

Almost immediately his eyes began to droop, exhaustion and comfort drowning out the memories of pain, the fear for Justice, the grief for Fenris. At last, he could rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, c’mon, no one expected happily ever after. I'm hoping this chapter and the previous one (which were originally one chapter, but broken up so people could avoid the TW section more easily) feel surreal and disjointed and frustrating. These boys already have a ton of things to unpack, but instead of actually doing that, they get a ton more shit to deal with. Awkwardly. In bits and pieces. 
> 
> Loose threads everywhere. I dunno about you lot, but frequently, my issues don’t get resolved before the next ones hit – and I don’t live in the waking nightmare known as Kirkwall. 
> 
> Side note - I got an email asking where we're at in the story, and I'll repeat what I said here. It's hard to say, based on how this is being written, but I'd guess there are 10-20 chapters of things I wanna touch on before Danarius comes to town, and then who knows how much to deal with that, The Last Straw, and lingering sequela. Afterwards, I have two main arcs I wanna follow. So, uh, yeah... it's early, yet.


	18. Nightmares and Pirate Daydreams

Anders was paralyzed. No, he was restrained. Before he even opened his eyes, he could feel the thick leather cuffs that bound him at the wrist, bicep, thigh and ankle, plus two cold iron chains that crossed over his chest. He was naked; a cold, hard surface at his back.

Worst, by far, was the desolate hole in his sensation where his magic should be. As always, his brain shied away from the memories that tried to pour in whenever a Silence robbed him of his gift; the panic prickled at him even as he fought to suppress the memories of being alone, of being bound, of being powerless.

He opened his eyes, but his surroundings were dark, hazy. He tried to settle his racing heart, tried to think things through. Panicking could be a death sentence for a mage.

The temptation to call for help was intense, but he refused to capitulate. _It may not be safe to shout. I need more information._ But the environment seemed intentionally bereft of information. The room was too dark to distinguish anything; he couldn’t even see walls to gauge the size or shape of the room. No lingering odors, no breeze, no sounds. It wasn’t hot or cold. It was… nothing.

Anders strained against his bindings, testing their strength, but found them secure. He blinked several times, trying to clear the cloud from his vision.

The sound of bootsteps on stone seemed jarringly loud to his deprived senses. He listened as they approached; two – no, three people. He didn’t hear the creak of hinges or the variegations of boots on stairs, so his mind supplied a mental image of a massive stone room with him tied up in the center.

A faint light flickered as shapes approached; three hooded figures circled him, poking and prodding silently, as if he were livestock at a fair. At length, one of the figures spoke, his voice a surprisingly soft, cultured tenor. “If what you say is true, why does the demon not show itself?”

A second voice replied in an unfamiliar accent that seemed to round off the edges of words. “That remains something of a mystery, Ser. It has been seen to exert control when the human experiences heightened distress, though the circumstances are not entirely clear.”

The soft voice scoffed gently. “You are undoubtedly aware of what is at stake if you attempt to deceive my master.”

“I assure you, I am aware. This is a true joined spirit, one of two in existence to the best of our knowledge.”

“Very well. It will be a simple matter to authenticate once you deliver. It goes without saying that the creature will be most dangerous; do take care not to damage the hide when subduing it.”

“You would not be paying the fees you are if you did not trust the training of a former Mourn Watch guard. The management of unruly spirits is well within my purview.”

The next thing Anders knew was pain, all-encompassing, slicing, burning pain. Knives slipping through the fascia between skin and muscle, blades jerking, slicing. His vision blurred once more as his mind sought the numb relief of unconsciousness.

Just at the precipice of darkness, the whole world stilled, faded; a different face looked down at him, now. This one was not hooded, and the young, masculine features were vaguely familiar.

He spoke in hushed, plaintive tones. “I do not have long – you’re being watched, and my keepers will not be distracted for long. But you helped me… were kind to me.” He cast a look around, then rushed to finish “There isn’t time to explain, but know this: my mother will want to perform the ritual inside the house. There is a wooden flute on the desk, and rolled inside are all the pages I have collected that might be able to help you.”

* * *

Anders sat up with a start, the memory of knives beneath his skin drowning out all else; pain filled his sight with static, his ears with the hollow, rapid thuthump of his heartbeat. He gasped for air.

Something touched him. He wailed, scrambled backwards, fell. Landing awkwardly on his tailbone jolted him fully awake. Immediately, he held up his arms for inspection, pulled up his trousers; his skin was hale, intact. It had been a nightmare.

He closed his eyes for a few shuddering breaths, then opened them again to looked around. Fenris’s mansion. Not a stone prison.

Fenris crouched a few feet away, his face a blank mask. “You are safe,” his deep voice intoned. The calm confidence in that voice sliced through the lingering fog of the dream. _I love that voice_ was the first clear thought he had.

“Fenris,” Anders choked out. The previous day began to seep back, and Anders was left with a confusing mixture of lingering fear and sudden embarrassment at the awkward position he had put Fenris in. “I’m sorry. I was… I guess I was dreaming. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake,” the elf replied, his voice still projecting a calmness that felt like warm honey on Anders’ frayed nerves. “The sun will rise in about an hour. It is time for practice.” He stood, holding a hand out to Anders. “And then, perhaps, we could talk.”

* * *

“Look, I’m sorry, Fenris. That’s all I have in me today. I can’t focus.”

“Now is exactly the time for focus.”

Anders sighed, frustrated, though overall he felt better after the mindless exertion of the Idos. It was becoming an integral stress release for him, and his mind always felt clearer after practice.

“Anders. When the Fog Warriors trained me, do you know when they started counting repetitions?”

“Does it even matter? You could probably do them all day, because you’re a Maker-damned warrior. Probably one of the best on the continent. I’m not _like_ you, Fenris – in case you’ve received some traumatic brain injury and managed to forget, I’m a mage. I’ll never have the stamina you do.”

“That is irrelevant,” Fenris continued in a placid, gently didactic tone. “The Fog Warriors begin to count repetitions when a recruit is ready to give up. That is the only training that matters. Those are the circumstances in which battles are won. It does not matter how many sets I can do; it matters how many you can do beyond the point where you think you cannot.”

Anders sagged, unsure if that was one of the most profound or most ridiculous things he had ever heard. Regardless, he took a gulp from his waterskin – the one item he would never again forget to bring with him to the Idos room - then resumed his stance in Open Posture.

Time folded in on itself, stretching and skipping in odd ways, as Anders had experienced before with the Idos. Forms blended into one another; he still maintained some of his mental mantra of corrections, but for the most part his body knew the routine by rote.

And then Fenris’s rich bass abruptly cut through the timeless fog. “One,” he said. “Tomorrow, we shall try for two. Well done.”

Anders wasn’t proud, exactly, but praise from Fenris raised his spirits considerably.

As soon as the set was done, his mind chugged back into its usual ruts; he needed to get to the clinic today, and Hawke would likely be by later to summon them to meet up with Marethari. Ugh, and he desperately needed a bath. He was covered in sweat, and… suddenly, he became aware that he hadn’t changed before coming down. He wasn’t wearing a tunic, and his scarred back was halfway turned to Fenris.

 _Apparently I’ve been alone too long,_ he thought, chagrined at having forgotten to be self-conscious about it. He quickly spun around to face the warrior.

Realizing that hadn’t been particularly subtle, he tried his best to look cavalier as he took another swallow from the waterskin, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, and offered the skin to Fenris.

The warrior gave Anders a peculiar look, then took a long swig of the proffered beverage. “Did you know, mage,” he said mildly, “that when you blush, it spreads all the way down your chest to your abdomen?” He replaced the cork and held the waterskin out.

An indignant noise, something akin to a squawk, left Anders’ lips as he looked down at his belly. “I do n… oh, well look at that. I uh, I didn’t know that, no. Thank you ever so much for pointing it out,” he said, flushing a deeper hue.

When Anders reached out to retrieve the waterskin, the warrior’s other hand darted up, snagging him by the wrist and giving him a tug. In a blink, Anders’ bare chest was pressed to the warrior’s tunic, his face an inch away.

Anders’ brain promptly ceased all higher functioning. He watched as Fenris lifted a hand, his eyes fixated on his ginger-blonde hair as he separated a lock and trailed his fingers down it. Then the warrior’s hand shifted until he cupped Anders' jaw, thumb stroking his cheek while his fingers curled just behind his ear. At length, the warrior looked up, met his eyes.

Anders couldn’t recall ever having gone from exhausted to fully alert in so short a time. Fenris was… right there.

The warrior’s gaze flickered down to where the puckered scar on his chest was pressed against Fenris’s tunic, then back up. He lifted his other hand, cradling Anders’ face between calloused fingers. “Your scars,” he growled, a sudden ferocity in his voice, “they are witnesses you carry with you.” Gentle fingers tilted Anders' head down, lips grazing his in a surprisingly soft but lingering kiss. “They do not diminish you.”

Anders’ thoughts had short-circuited a while back; he couldn’t think of a response if he wanted to. More to the point, he was deeply moved by the warrior’s keen observation, and his words… _Maker,_ just the right words.

This time, when Fenris leaned in, Anders gathered him in his arms. He kissed the elf with all the feelings he couldn’t convey in words, while his hands roamed the firm expanse of the warrior’s back.

Just as he was beginning to snap out of his confounded stupor, Fenris broke the kiss. Anders heard a little noise of protest fall from his lips, and the warrior chuckled and dropped his hands to Anders’ waist. “We have much to discuss, however. And I assure you, there is much to be gained through patience.” Anders shivered. The look on the warrior’s face when he said that… _Maker preserve me, this is either the best or worst form of torture._

With that, Fenris turned, heading up the stairs. “I will make breakfast.”

“I’ll take a quick bath.” _A cold one._

* * *

Anders was polishing off his second helping of eggs, trying to build up the courage to take a bite of the ‘jam’ Fenris had created to accompany the toasted slices of thick, seeded peasant bread.

The warrior had developed something of a fetish for berries, and had been experimenting with them at nearly every meal he prepared. It all seemed relatively benign to Anders, as he was quite certain there were few things that could ruin berries. So far, all the experiments had been surprisingly delicious, if unconventional. _Oh man, that raspberry, mint, honey and pistachio spread was amazing._

But then the markets had begun to receive crops of seasonal cherry tomatoes, and Fenris was enthralled by them. He adamantly insisted that the wee tomatoes were ‘sweet’, and today had boiled tomatoes and strawberries with sugar, basil, and water, to create a seeded red compound that had the consistency of paste. The aroma wafting through the little kitchen was not promising.

The warrior had been quite excited, but his first bite of the steaming blend had resulted in a cough and a frown. He stubbornly took another bite, grimaced, and then looked expectantly at Anders.

Resignedly, Anders spooned a gelatinous blob onto the otherwise delicious toast. He breathed through his mouth so as not to get a whiff of the malodorous concoction, then quickly took a bite before he could chicken out.

“Mmm…” Anders said through a pained expression. “Yep, that is…sure… hot. And uh… thick.”

Fenris snatched the pot off the table and tossed the entire brew, pot and all, out the nearest window. A faint shout echoed up from the streets below. “I do not understand… they are so alike. But together, they make something…”

“Unholy? Mephitic? Nauseating?” Anders supplied helpfully.

Fenris scowled, but Anders was quick to soothe his ruffled feathers. “I like that about you, you know. You’re fearless - and not just in battle. You have this curiosity… I don’t quite know how to describe it.”

Fenris sat back down with a huff. “Words that would be better served describing you. Your curiosity knows no bounds.” He paused thoughtfully. “What is that old saying? Curiosity killed the cat?”

“Ahhh, that gem. Except that’s not the full saying. It’s ‘curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.’ People have been using the bastardized version to prove the wrong point for ages. A tragedy, really, and a flagrant defamation of cats.”

Anders suddenly noticed the tangent and backtracked. “Besides, I’m curious in different ways.”

He paused as the comparison between himself and Fenris rattled something loose in his mind. “Hold on, that’s it! It’s not just that you’re curious, but you’re _confident_. You don’t just go blundering into things like I do – it’s all calculated with you, because you can pretty much handle any trouble your inquisitive nature gets you into.” Anders looked up triumphantly, pleased that the warrior’s comment had helped him find the right words to explain what he had long known about Fenris.

Fenris was looking at him strangely, but his lip quirked up in a lopsided smile. “That was either meant as a more generalized compliment, or a rather harsh indictment of my cooking.”

Anders made a quick trip to the pantry and returned with the crock of honey, spooning some onto the uncontaminated side of his toast. “You know me too well. All that heartfelt admiration was just a cheeky ruse to insult your cooking.” He pointedly served himself another scoop of fluffy scrambled eggs. “Whereas I can only afford such confidence when it comes to magic.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “That is patently ridiculous.”

Anders didn’t want to put the warrior in the position of defending him to himself, so instead he changed the subject. Time to rip off the bandage.

“Speaking of magic…” he segued gracelessly, “I know you wanted to discuss my nightmare, but there’s something I need to tell you first.”

Fenris stood and filled a kettle; despite his sharp edges, the warrior was uniquely talented at reading other people. He seemed to have an intuitive grasp of when Anders would be more comfortable without those mossy green eyes fixed on him. It had something to do with his time as a slave, Anders was convinced, but it was hardly something he could just ask about.

Anders continued while Fenris poked around in the collection of teas he had brought up from the clinic. “The mage that attacked yesterday, Tershiron. There was a point… well, I guess there were several… when I was pretty sure he could beat me. He was so much more powerful than even Hadriana, and he was driven – it really meant something to him to win an apprenticeship.”

“Danarius would never take an elf as an apprentice. The fool mage was deceived.”

“It seems like your former master is pretty good at that whole… deception thing.” _No, no sidetracks, no diversion._ “But anyways, I was terrified you would be captured. I was desperate. I… was going to let Justice take control. He is just more powerful than I am, and – I don’t really know how to explain it, but - my body doesn’t respond the same way to damage when he is in charge.”

Fenris stilled, turning from the basket of teas to glance at him sidelong. “The chest wound?”

Anders looked down, but gave a small nod.

“So, you were desperate. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing, actually. I released control. Only… Justice didn’t take it. I don’t understand, but I’m worried. I think something is happening to him… to me.” Anders’ brow furrowed, confusion and fear parading openly across his face. “Sometimes I dream about him; supposedly our sleeping minds enter the Fade, so perhaps he is more - I don’t know - autonomous there. But I haven’t seen him in a long time. Weeks, maybe months. Maybe it’s the Taint, or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t been working as single-mindedly on the cause he joined with me to support, but I’m worried that I’ve… hurt him, somehow. Like, maybe Vengeance is all that’s left of my friend.”

It was hard, so hard, to share this with Fenris. Anders felt so guilty. Any quips about demons would strike vulnerable territory. He hated the idea of being forced to choose between defending the parts of him that cared for Fenris and those that felt indebted to his precious friend, the only one who had been there for him during his darkest days.

He wanted to gloss over it, to downplay or redirect, but the warrior deserved to know. Anders wasn’t sure what was happening, he was out of his depth, and harbored a powerful spirit. He wouldn’t add to the risk by concealing it, despite how much easier that would be.

He paused, giving a mental sigh of relief when Fenris didn’t comment. _Onward, then._ “And now I keep having this nightmare…”

“Keep? How long?”

“I don’t know… weeks, now. It’s always the same. I’m bound to a table, I can’t see or hear anything, and then people appear – sometimes one, sometimes two or three. They talk for a while, and then they…” Anders faltered, swallowing a few times before continuing, “They skin me.”

Fenris placed a steaming mug of tea in front of him, then sat down in the chair beside him, elbows on his knees, head down. He looked pensive but remained silent.

“I can think of three possibilities.” Anders held up a hand, ticking off options on his fingers as he relayed them. “Perhaps it’s just a reflection of my own worries, that I’ve weakened Justice with my anger, the Darkspawn Taint, my lack of progress helping the Circle mages - or some combination thereof. Perhaps the dream is telling me something, and someone out there is purposefully trying to weaken Justice. Or perhaps Justice knew about your armor, and is reliving the experiences Valor went through. That nightmare is what made me think of your armor in the first place.”

He stilled, wrapped his hands around the warm mug, bracing himself for whatever Fenris had to say.

“Could it not be a combination, or even all three?”

Anders’ brow knitted as he thought. “Well, if your question is whether they are mutually exclusive, then… no, I suppose not. So, you’re saying, perhaps I have weakened Justice, but he’s still trying to warn me of something… which would suggest there is a true threat out there.”

He propped his elbows on the table, placing his forehead in his hands as he thought it over. “In the past, we’ve always known what the other experienced, so I should know if he saw something in the Fade… but I guess, if he’s weakening, then maybe I’m not as aware of him as I used to be. Perhaps I should spend more time on my manifesto – this could all be the result of how, uh, distracted I’ve been lately. At least then I’d know if there was anything I could do to help him…”

He looked up to see Fenris’s face had gone blank. _That damned mask. I knew this was a bad idea…_

“Am I a distraction?” the warrior asked impassively.

“What? No! nonono, that’s not what I meant. I mean, yes, in a way, but, in a good way.” He scoured his mind for an example, some way to explain the complexity that he only barely understood himself.

“Ok, this is probably a stupid analogy, but imagine you’re a soldier, fighting for a country and a cause you believe in. You fight to keep your borders secure, to make sure everyone in your country is safe and free. But then you meet someone special, you start a family… suddenly, those things you fought for are _personal._ It’s not an abstract concept anymore – you’re probably going to fight harder because it matters more. But you also have other responsibilities, other demands on your time, other things you care about, so maybe you’re not as good of a soldier anymore. But does that mean your family is a distraction?”

Fenris’s expression melted from the frosty mask as he spoke, but Anders continued to babble, externally processing within the confines of the analogy. “Do you have to choose between them? And are you selfish if you don’t choose the greater good…? Maybe that’s why Justice -”

His runaway thoughts stilled when Fenris placed a hand on his knee. He looked up, met those mossy eyes and the razor-sharp wit behind them. “Perhaps selfishness is not the worst of sins.”

A rapping at the front door intruded on the moment. Anders froze.

“Hawke?”

“Nah, there isn’t nearly enough incessant pounding. Or swearing. Slavers?”

“Politely knocking at the front door?”

“Perhaps they’re switching it up. Do you get Serah Scouts selling cookies here?”

“No.”

Anders realized the only other possibility. “Izzy,” he proclaimed, at the same time as Fenris rumbled, “Isabela.”

“Give me a quick head start – I just need to grab my staff and robe before I can head back to the clinic.”

Fenris gave him a puzzled look. “You said she knew you were staying here.”

“Well, I said she might… but that’s kinda different from me greeting her at the front door.”

The knock sounded again, louder this time.

“You may go if you wish.”

“I can stay if you want…” Anders recoiled a little when he heard himself. Since when had he become so passive, so timid? “No, wait. I’ll stay. If that is alright with you.”

Fenris gave a long-suffering sigh and stood, trapsing to the main hall. Anders stood in the doorway to their little makeshift kitchen, leaning his hip casually against the frame – would it look more casual if he leaned on his elbow? No, ew, better with just the hip – and waited.

As soon as Fenris turned the handle, the door flew in. Izzy’s voice rang through the hall in a boisterous, “Ah-HAH! Wait… it’s you. I mean - hellooooo handsome, but you’re not who I expected.” The pirate captain invited herself in, took a few steps, and did a double-take when she saw Anders. “You! Ah-HAH!! I knew it!”

She practically skipped her way over to Anders, wrapping him up in a quick hug before holding him at arm’s length. “Tell me everything. How long have you two been…? And what equipment are we talking? Shortsword? Broadsword? Longsword? Oh! And what color are his damned smallclothes??” She whirled to face Fenris without pause. “That electricity thing, right? Is that how he seduced you?” Izzy closed her eyes, head rolling back. “Oh man, I can only imagine how hot you two are together. So much _angst_ , the sex has to be…mwah!” she held her fingers up, kissing the tips theatrically.

“No. I did not know of the ‘electricity thing’ until… later. Nor did I realize this was common knowledge,” Fenris grumbled, giving Anders a sidelong look.

 _Is he… jealous?_ Anders shouldn’t be enjoying this, he was quite sure. “Oh sure, just throw me to the wolves. Well, his smallclothes are the color ‘Fenris’. In that he doesn’t wear them.”

“Neither do you.”

Izzy squealed and punched Anders affectionately - by her standards - on the arm. “Oh, you two are just delicious. I would pay so much of Hawke’s money to just watch – not even participate!”

Anders rubbed his arm and shook his head fondly. “So, uh… Hello Izzy, good to see you. What brings you to –“

Izzy interrupted with a dramatic gasp, again rounding on Fenris. “Ohoho! Did you get rid of the corpses? And fix the tile?”

“What, I couldn’t possibly have done the tile?” Anders grumped.

“The missing tiles were bothersome. I was tired of tripping.”

“Bullshit, you probably emerged from the womb with that sexy feline grace. It’s Anders making you nesty.”

“Nesty.” Fenris repeated flatly.

“Yeah, you know… when a taut, brooding warrior brings home a kind, muscled mage and suddenly realizes he needs to make some repairs around the ole’ bachelor pad. Throw out the corpses, put down actual flooring, repair the gaping holes in the roof – oh, no, never mind that one. But yeah. Nesty.”

Anders moved up behind the captain and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Mmkay, Izzy, let’s get you a nice cup of tea, and then maybe you want to share what brings you here…”

“Blech! Don’t you have any ale or rum in this giant mansion?”

“There is wine.”

Anders snickered. “Just not Sun Blonde.”

Fenris’s lips quirked up, and Anders would have sworn he flushed a little.

“Don’t tell me the two of you have inside jokes already. Andraste's granny pants, I’m going to get a cavity if I stay here much longer, but I’ll love every minute of it.”

Anders excused himself, making it all the way down to the wine cellar before he realized he knew nothing about wine selection. He perused several racks before finding a bottle that had a naked lady wrapped around a rose on the label. That was probably as close as he would come to finding something Izzy would enjoy, and anyways, he was fairly convinced that perception of wine quality depended almost entirely on the price tag and the environment.

He returned to an empty main hall, then proceeded to the kitchen where he discovered Izzy and Fenris sitting down, heads close together, whispering conspiratorially. _Well, that can’t be good._

The pirate captain noticed him first. She straightened, coughed, and – merrily, but a little louder than necessary – said, “And does a girl really need a reason to drop in on her two hottest, most sexually compatible friends?”

Anders paused. About 50 questions popped into his mind at that comment, but none made it past his lips. Fenris beat him to the punch. “Compatible? What…how did…”

Izzy laughed, clearly pleased that her bait was gobbled up. “Oh, my dear, broody, gorgeous little biscuit. Isn’t it obvious? You’re both starved for touch, a little kinky, and have stamina for days. The perfect combination for some desperate, bed-breaking, boundary-pushing bang sessions. I’m honestly surprised you’re both walking straight – or at all for that matter. You should be hammering each other’s brains out right now.” She paused, clearly enjoying the mental image.

“Plus, you’ve got Thinky slash Sparkle Fingers over here to come up with new ideas, so it will always be fresh, and you’ve got Tevinter slash Magical Fisting over here – helloooo, home of the sex toy and, well, need I elaborate? There is literally no end to the possibilities.”

Anders was blushing furiously by the time Izzy finished. Fenris was looking contemplatively at Anders. _Damnit, what is she, some kind of carnal fortune-teller? Surely no one pays that much attention to…oh, right. Izzy. Maker, she’s so much sharper than she wants you to think._

Anders chose avoidance. He retrieved the tin cups from his mess kit, mentally reminding himself to scrounge the storerooms for flatware later. He set them on the table with the wine bottle.

Izzy looked between the two, clearly pleased with herself, and blithely continued. “Anyhoo, I just stopped by to let you know Hawke wants you to meet her in the Alienage in about an hour. Well, that’s not true, I stopped by to win a bet with Varric, but also the Hawke thing.”

Anders refused to walk into the obvious ‘bet’ trap, instead going on the offensive. “Speaking of which, how are things with Hawke lately? I assume the whole Qunari relic incident has blown over?”

Izzy pouted. “Damnit. I was having so much fun, and there you go bringing up serious things. Why do you have to be such a stick in the mud Anders?”

“Oh ho! So it’s ‘serious’ now, eh?”

Izzy grabbed the bottle around the neck, pulled a small dagger from her cleavage, and removed the cork with practiced ease. She downed several swallows before holding the bottle out to Fenris, at which point she noticed the label and grinned. “Awww, you know me so well,” she purred. A deep, windy burp punctuated her statement.

Anders couldn’t suppress a snicker. “You’re a gem, Izzy. But I won’t be diverted – does Hawke know how you’re having… feelings?”

The pirate sulked. Her warm amber eyes flicked down, apparently enthralled by her bracer all of a sudden. “She… does not. And to be fair, I’ve told her enough times that I don’t want any of that… well, you can hardly blame her.”

“People change their minds all the time! I think, deep down, Hawke knows how lucky she is to have you and that heart of gold you have hidden in there.”

“Shhh! That was supposed to be a secret,” Izzy hissed. A beat later, she looked up. “Besides. There’s a difference between feeling lucky for what you have and wanting more.”

“You know her well. If you were to divulge such things to her, what would her response be?” Fenris asked. Anders’ heart fluttered at the tenderness behind his words. There was something sweet – and terrifying – about the warrior’s soft spot for the many-layered pirate.

“Well, I don’t know, do I? That’s the whole problem.”

“Your guess is likely more accurate than you think.”

“Hmmph. She’d probably say, ‘Who the hell are you and what have you done with Isabela?’”

“That is what you fear she will say. That is not what I asked.”

Izzy groaned. “Alright! Alright, I’ll think about it, okay? I can’t just… perform on command, you know. Unless we’re talking about a different kind of performance,” she finished with a wink. A moment later, her face pinched in confusion. “Wait, how do… you do that with Sparkle Fingers, don’t you? Ohhhh yes, you have entire discussions in your head. How close do you get in these little mental roleplays?”

Fenris shrugged one shoulder. “I am correct more often than not.”

“Wait… you… practice things to say to me?”

“Certain things, yes.”

“How do you know what I’ll say?

“I think of what I would say, and then put it in more complicated terms. Then I add more words. And more self-recriminations.”

Izzy laughed, a long, contagious belly laugh. Anders found himself giggling along with her, and even Fenris stifled a few huffs and snorts.

“See,” the rogue said when she regained some composure. “I _told_ you that you two were more alike than you thought.”

Anders’ sixth sense immediately pounced on the potentially sensitive subject; he didn’t want this awkward yet delightful visit to devolve into an argument. “Oh hey, I just remembered. We’ve been experiencing some, uh, break-ins lately – I was wondering if you might be able to set up some traps at the windows and door. Anything that could provide a bit of warning, really.”

Izzy clapped her hands. “Oh, funsies! Alright, first you need to give me a proper tour of all the entrances; I need to know what I’m working with before I can select the proper tools.” She paused to giggle. “Mm, tools. And for the love of Andraste’s ample bosom, fix the damn roof – there’s no point in securing the windows and doors if anyone can just stumble in from above.”

_Huh, why didn’t I think of that?_


	19. Dreams and Dreamers

After a short, amiable hike, the disparate trio descended the stairs to the elven Alienage. Fenris and Izzy were discussing the relative merits of wine versus rum, and Anders was lost in thought.

“Maker, Izzy, you were supposed to herd them here in an hour – nearly two hours ago!” Hawke’s resonant voice echoed across the paradoxically tidy slum. She was leaning irreverently against one of the massive roots of the vhenadahl, that strange, beautiful tree that managed to thrive in this, the most inhospitable of places.

Anders had been thinking on the rogue’s visit while they made the trip to Lowtown, and was pretty certain she was using some sort of subtle matchmaker trickery to normalize the situation between Fenris and Anders and paint each of them in a flattering light. Then again, it could have just been the typical horny rantings of his closest friend in their little gang of misfits. She was so damn smooth it was difficult to tell.

Regardless, he wanted to try and return the favor, whether it was intentional or otherwise. “Aww, that’s so cute! Hawke was worried about you,” he said with a genuinely happy grin.

Hawke grumbled, pushing off the tree root to join her companions. “Yeah, worried one of you two proved too great a _distraction_ for our sassy sea-mistress.”

“Ahh, so, jealousy then,” Anders said with a wink to Izzy. The pirate rolled her eyes, but flashed him a lopsided smile shortly thereafter.

Hawke threw up her arms. “Alright, you caught me. I’m jealous that my notoriously lusty lover turned out to be notoriously lusty. Can we get to work now, or do you have other commentary on my personal life?”

Fenris chuckled, but Anders harumphed. “Fine. Where is Marethari? And this kid everyone’s so worried about?”

As if on cue, the Dalish Keeper descended the stairs of the Alienage; all nearby city elves went silent, bowing or gesturing in deference. It struck Anders as somewhat surprising, that the Dalish would be so venerated amongst their city counterparts. In his irregular experiences in the world at large, he had heard city elves refer to the clans as vagabonds, bandits, and savages; likewise, he’d heard the term ‘flat-ear’ to describe the elves that lived among, yet segregated from, human societies.

Yet the Keeper’s presence was nothing short of awe-inspiring for the residents of Kirkwall’s Alienage; perhaps there was more solidarity between the two groups than he realized.

No one spoke as the Keeper approached an elf with strawberry-blonde hair and an ageless face. He recognized her… Arianni, that was her name. They had met briefly years ago; the team had helped rescue her son from slavers. Was that the ‘child’ they were here to help?

In a flash, a snippet of his nightmare surfaced in his memory, as real as if it had just happened. _Feynriel. That was Feynriel’s face in my dream. “My mother will want to perform the ritual inside the house. There is a wooden flute on the desk….”_

Anders shivered. It was a coincidence. There was no way the boy could have known, much less enter a mage’s dreams to… to what? Help him? Impossible.

The elven woman, Arianni, lifted a hand, pointing to a nearby doorway. The Keeper nodded, entering the doorway in a few dignified steps. Anders looked at Hawke. She shrugged, then turned to follow.

Marethari took charge as soon as everyone had piled into the sparse but tidy home. “I came as soon as I could,” she intoned, her voice a soft lilt. “The situation is dire. Your son is not asleep; he is trapped in the Beyond by demons who quarrel over him as wolves with a fresh kill. As a Dreamer, he could learn to enter the Fade at will, shape dreams, and even affect the world beyond the Veil – but he is untrained, vulnerable.”

She began to detail a ritual to send Hawke to the Fade, pausing frequently to answer the battery of questions Hawke fired at her, but Anders stopped listening. _A Dreamer… Maker._ Perhaps the young man truly had entered his dream… but how, if he was trapped by demons? And why?

He looked about the room, his eyes landing on a desk near the doorway. There, exactly as predicted, he noticed a large wooden flute resting on the desk. He wandered over, making a show of looking at things nearby, while surreptitiously palming the flute and tucking it into an interior pocket of his coat.

A pang of guilt made him cringe; he was either following instructions given by a beneficent Dreamer, or he was robbing a family of destitute elves. He reached into a satchel at his waist; his wordly wealth consisted of two silvers and half a dozen coppers, but it would have to do. He stacked them in his hand and discreetly palmed them onto the desk. 

As he turned back around, he saw that the Keeper had pulled Hawke off to the side; Izzy was idly performing knife tricks with a small dagger that she shoved back into the top of her boot when Hawke approached. Fenris, meanwhile, was giving Anders a suspicious glare. Anders did his best to make his eyes communicate, “can we talk about it later?”

“Alright, folks. Turns out, this is the mission of your dreams.” She paused to chuckle at her own joke, then proceeded, “We’re going to the Fade via some ancient elven ritual. Anyone wants off this train, now is the time.”

Without actually pausing for protests, she again conferred with the Keeper, then helped set up various candles and charcoal drawings required for the ritual.

The indomitable force that was Izzy didn’t seem the least bit phased by Hawke’s announcement. She nudged Fenris with her shoulder. “Frolic through dreams? Sounds like an experience. I bet you’re used to it by now, though, right?” She flashed Anders an evil grin, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Fenris looked between her and Anders before giving a low chuckle. “I have no desire to explore the Fade, but I will go where I am needed.”

Anders bit his lip, trying not to think of all the ways in which this could go terribly awry. “I worry what a journey to the Fade might bring out in me.”

Fenris took a step closer, his voice pitched only for Anders’ ears when he asked, “The dem- spirit?” Anders nodded. “Is this not an opportunity then? You said you have not spoken recently. Perhaps you can communicate.”

Anders’ brows pinched together as he thought that over. “I guess it’s possible… I don’t actually know, to be honest. I’ve stayed out of the Fade since we merged.” He paused, looking down as he added, “I’m just worried that it won’t be Justice.”

* * *

Anders awoke standing in what appeared to be the Templar Hall in the Gallows, though everything was fuzzy and a little off. He blinked to clear the some of the haze from his vision, but… he didn’t actually blink.

He watched, a hapless passenger, as his body took a few steps into the hall. He heard a booming voice musing, “I had not thought to return in such a way. It is good to feel the breath of the Fade again, not the empty air of your world.” It was so strange to hear that voice; like another man’s voice forced through his vocal cords – which, Anders supposed, it was. 

Hawke immediately spun on him; Anders watched as she approached, tense and wary. “Justice, I presume?”

“Anders has told you of me,” he heard himself reply.

_Shit. Sneaky little bastard. I told Hawke about Vengeance after Alrik, after… Ella. And we’ve spoken about Justice several times. It could be either of them._

“I wish to speak to Justice,” a deep, resonant voice echoed from behind him. Anders had the dizzying, nauseating experience of watching from eyes he didn’t control as his body turned to face Fenris. Every motion felt jerky, disorienting, as though looking through lenses someone else held before him.

“Oooh, Hawke, look! Puzzles!” Izzy blurted, grabbing Hawke by the arm and guiding her to an adjacent room. _Maker bless that woman,_ Anders thought. This was shortly followed by a grimace as he vividly recalled telling Hawke that nothing was going on which could affect the group.

Fenris stood tall and upright, shoulders back, arms relaxed at his side. He took up a surprising amount of space - and looked rather intimidating - in this posture.

“You. Is it not enough that you distract Anders from our purpose? Now you dare to delay justice for Feynriel as well?”

“Anders is concerned that he is corrupting Justice with his anger, or the Taint. Is it true?”

“That is beyond your ken.”

Fenris did not flinch from the dismissive tone. “What are your intentions? Do you seek justice for Anders? Or all mages?”

“A foolish question. Anders wishes to protect other mages from being taken as he was taken. Every mage we liberate is a righteous step toward avenging Anders.”

“Avenging,” the warrior responded flatly. Fenris closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I wish to speak to Justice,” he repeated.

“Enough! We will waste no more time on this fatuity.”

Fenris bristled, his voice growing colder, though he didn’t show any other outward signs of fear or anger. “Tell me, demon – why do you not seek a life of contentment for Anders? Is that not also a just outcome? Though I imagine that renumeration would be much less satisfying for you; surely there are too many ways to achieve that outcome without retribution.”

He took a step forward; Anders could see the warrior’s eyes searching his plaintively. “If there is anything of Justice, or Anders, in you, creature, tell me: is there nothing that can be done to reverse this corruption? If you truly are two sides of the same coin, then surely the process cannot be irreversible.”

A strange sensation gripped Anders; a turbulent sense of unrest, of instability. He’d never felt anything like it when Justice took control previously. It was nauseating. Anders struggled against the insubstantial barrier that rendered him a spectator inside his body, vying to wrest control back.

All too quickly, the sensation passed, and Vengeance reaffirmed his dominion. He brushed past Fenris with utter disregard and strode up to Hawke and Isabela. “Come, I sense Feynriel’s mind straining. We will not have much time.”

The message was clear: he wasn’t in control any longer. Without recourse, Anders checked out for a time; he halfheartedly attended to events but couldn’t do anything besides wait.

He distantly felt relief when Hawke refused to deal with Torpor, and halfheartedly cheered when she urged Feynriel to question the demon posing as his father. Hawke wasn’t a fool; she didn’t strong-arm the boy – nothing good could come from undermining the bearer of such power.

Anders wasn’t surprised when the demon seduced Izzy; everyone thought they were so far above the temptation of demons, but only mages could understand how difficult it truly was. There was an entire world separating what people thought they would do - when far removed and thinking logically - and what they actually did.

Many strong-willed, resolute people could not refuse temptation; not when the siren song of a demon’s magic tickled the senses, while they filled the mind with images uniquely designed to tempt their prey. Even the passionate, the righteous, the moral individuals fell, when demons offered the power to right wrongs or promised to save loved ones in exchange for a host.

The only way to defy a demon was to say “no” regardless of anything you thought or felt, and that was much, much easier said than done.

As such, he also wasn’t surprised when Fenris capitulated, though it was heartbreaking to watch. Before he had gotten to know the warrior, he would have reveled in the hypocrisy. Now, it was a torment to see how deep the scars went, how frightened the formidable warrior truly was of the Magisters, and how extraordinary he was to face the world despite those fears.

He roused when Hawke spoke to Feynriel. The young Dreamer was at least cognizant that he desperately needed to learn some control. Anders could hardly imagine the devastation such a power could cause if he allowed himself to be possessed.

But then the half-elf spoke of finding training in Tevinter, and bitter tendrils of doubt crept into Anders’ belly. Would he become the next Hadriana, or Tershiron, or Danarius? Had he already been corrupted?

At some point, the boy looked at him – looked into his eyes and saw _him._ Then his gaze flickered back to Hawke. “Thank you for saving my life. This is the second time, and I won’t forget that.” Hawke made a quip about naming his firstborn after her, and Feynriel chuckled, looking again at Anders. “I think I can do this. All will be well when you wake up. Tell my mother I love her, and that my flute is in good hands. Something to hold on to in the months to come.”

Hawke raised a brow. “Sure, yeah. Uh, good luck with that.” She grumbled under her breath as Feynriel opened a gateway and departed the Fade, something about keeping his damn wits about him.

* * *

Anders awoke as Anders. The satisfaction of feeling his eyes open, his fingers move, at his own command… it was one of the most strange and poignant sensations of his life.

Relief washed over him like a cool breeze, raising goosebumps up his arms and neck. This was shortly followed by a pang of guilt – was that how Justice felt every day? Shackled to his body and every decision he made? He didn’t think so… at least, not at first. They had been united, in every sense of the word – for a time, at least.

Being in the Fade highlighted how much things had changed; they were more like two separate entities sharing the same body and pulling it in different directions. It was also impossible to ignore that the other entity was not his old friend.

The sounds of nearby conversation stirred him from his reverie. Hawke was recounting the mission's success to Arianni and the Keeper. Anders was glad – and not for the first time – that Hawke was their spokeswoman; she had a way of explaining things with a charm and succinctness that Anders himself wasn't capable of.

He looked around the room instead. Izzy was looking at her feet, the floor, and everywhere but at Hawke; Fenris was likewise evading Hawke’s eye, though he cast brief speculative glances at Anders. 

“Feynriel asked me to tell you he loved you, and that his flute is in good hands?” Hawke conveyed with a hint of confusion. She gave brief nods to both women and turned towards the door, but not before casting stormy, meaningful looks at her three companions.

Just outside the door, Hawke spun to face them. “I would like a word. With each of you,” she demanded tersely. Anders opened his mouth to respond, but Hawke cut him off, pointing at Izzy. “You first.”

The warrior and the reluctant rogue stepped out of earshot. Fenris took a step closer. “Anders?” The concern in his voice was a bitter pill to swallow.

Anders nodded. “It’s me.” He looked down at his feet, too tired and numb to fully embrace the anxiety that simmered at the edges of his consciousness, but still apprehensive of the fallout from his possession. “I wanted to thank you… for what you said. For trying to get answers. It couldn’t have been easy for you to face…”

“Vengeance.” Fenris said, finishing Anders’ unvoiced worry. The word had a finality to it that reminded Anders of a prison door slamming shut. He flinched slightly but nodded.

Fenris crouched, sitting back on his heels. At some point he opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed his mouth and titled his head down to comb his fingers through his hair.

Anders was terrified that his encounter with Vengeance had managed to spoil the fragile trust that managed to grow, like the miraculous vhenadahl, in the inhospitable space between them.

As soon as that thought bubbled up, he had a pronounced moment of self-awareness; he was much, much more terrified of how desperately he wanted to smooth things over with Fenris. The urge to speak to the warrior, to be embraced and seen and understood, was nearly overwhelming. It felt similar to times when he had gone for long stretches without food, or water - the biological imperative to eat or drink was like a coil inside him, an unavoidable tension that drowned out other thoughts.

And that was horrifying, because it was outside his control. The warrior’s inexplicable affection could so easily be taken away from him… when had he become so dependent on something so capricious as feelings? It was madness.

And yet, despite how utterly true that insight felt, the first thing that came to mind was to tell Fenris about it, to talk it over.

 _I’ve grown soft,_ part of him chastised. Another part of him recalled Fenris chastising him for his terrible mind-reading attempts. _I keep building arguments on a foundation of sand._ It was true that he was afraid of needing anyone, and he was equally afraid of being alone. The healer within knew that to be a normal response to long-term isolation. But that was not an excuse to develop faulty arguments.

His brooding was interrupted by Hawke’s voice ringing in the air. “Next!” she barked. Fenris stood and paced over towards the voice, just as Izzy emerged from around the vhenadahl’s roots.

“How’d it go?” Anders asked cautiously.

“About as well as a dance with Jack Ketch,” Isabela sighed, slumping down against the tree. “Lots of variations on the same themes, namely, ‘how could you’ and ‘I’m just disappointed’. Pretty much what you’d expect for betraying Hawke, really.”

“Now that’s bullshit, and it’s not fair - because demons don’t play fair. What happened in the Fade doesn’t mean anything except that you’re susceptible to magic. No one blames anyone for ‘not resisting’ a fireball, and it’s the same damn thing.” Anders realized he was deflecting even as the words left his mouth, but it didn’t stop him. “I’m going to talk to her. She has no right to hold that against you.”

“Easy there, Sparkle Fingers. Don’t stick your nose in it. She’s feeling betrayed, and you can hardly blame her for that.”

“No, it’s more than that. Hawke can be so thoughtful on missions and when she’s out in public. She was brilliant with Feynriel; firm, but not overbearing. But it’s like she’s a different person when she won’t get any reward or acclaim out of it, all bullheaded and mistrusting behind closed doors. You don’t deserve that.”

Izzy turned a sharp look on him, and gave a rare scoff of annoyance. “I thought you of all people would be more understanding than that. Hawke’s had a shit life. She raised herself, escaped a Blight… I mean, look around, Anders. Everyone she cares about dies or leaves. Of course she has trust issues. And instead of bitching about it, she helps people.”

Izzy sighed, looking down at her hands. “We both know that making herself big and important isn’t going to stop bad shit from happening, but it’s better than a lot of other options.” She paused, fidgeting with a buckle on her bracer. “And I really hate you for making me have not one, but two serious conversations in the same day. I think I might be sick.”

“NEXT,” Hawke’s booming voice echoed across the Alienage. Several city elves paused in their tasks to look about nervously.

Anders squared his shoulders and strode resolutely towards Hawke’s voice, Izzy’s words bouncing around his skull. “My advice?” Izzy called after him. “Strike colors – you really don’t want to fight with Hawke.”

He passed Fenris on his way over, though the warrior’s face was inscrutable. Hawke was leaning against a stone building, one foot flat against the wall behind her, arms crossed over her chest. “And as for you…” she began, “I want to thank you. _Maker_ , I didn’t expect to be saying that, but I also didn’t expect you’d be the only one fighting beside me at the end there.”

“Hawke… it wasn’t me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Justice. I know.”

For all his training, nothing could have prepared him for this quandary; should he explain his fears about Vengeance? The nightmare? Guilt and worry coiled in his belly, and neither sentiment helped him think any clearer.

Hawke didn’t need to deal with his problems, and there really wasn’t anything she could do. Besides – they had enough fundamental differences of opinion that this rare turn of goodwill was an almost irresistible boon.

On the other hand, it would be deceptive to pretend that he had stood with her voluntarily. In actuality, he had no control over the being who just so happened to share the same goal as Hawke when it came to Feynriel. Besides, taking credit for supposed loyalty was a tacit agreement that Izzy and Fenris had betrayed her.

But then again, if he explained what was happening to him, there was a good chance she would overreact. Her own sister had been sent to the Gallows.

That decided him. He couldn’t risk losing Hawke’s protection from the Circle. He would be powerless to help the other mages inside, and Fenris… well, he needed to sort out the armor rune...

As soon as he made a decision, the words left his lips without another thought, afraid he would choke on them if he dwelled too long on the half-truth. “It wasn’t because I’m strong or loyal, Hawke. Mages are trained to deal with demons. It’s one of the two main things Malcolm would have taught Bethany – how to resist those beyond the Veil, and how to exert precise control over their powers. You can’t expect anyone without that training to break a demon’s spell; you might as well expect them to ‘defy’ poison.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t respond for a time. When she did speak, her tone was softer, smaller somehow. “I was thinking of him, actually. When we faced Torpor. I guess I picked up on some of what he said, because my father had to repeat it so often. Bethany had a really rough time letting go of all the logical and moral arguments when it came to demonic temptation. You know what finally worked?” Hawke asked with a sad smile. “My father had her picture every demon as Carver. And just like that, she was miraculously able to see the bullshit for what it was. It worked for me, too…” She trailed off, her expression growing pained.

“Do you miss him? Your brother?”

“No. And yes. You’re lucky you never met him – oh, Maker, he would have _hated_ you. He was a selfish, immature ass most of the time. But I think he would have grown into a really good person, in the end. If he’d had the chance. He might have been the best of us… he dreamed bigger than Bethany and had more conviction than me.”

Anders was touched - he’d never seen this side of Hawke before – but the moment passed as Hawke straightened, her walls snapping back up before his eyes. “One more thing. Is there anything you want to tell me about that little discussion between you, Fenris, and other you?”

Anders hesitated. This was safer ground; he had the wirium shield now, and the potential for an elemental shield that could be recast at will if his theory about Fenris’s armor was correct. Choosing his words carefully, he explained, “I have been staying at Fenris’s mansion. We’ve discovered a few new options for maintaining his spirit resistance long-term – better than the accessories he has now.” That was all true, and he hoped it gave Hawke the impression he was hoping for. “I had a nightmare about Justice, and Fenris was hoping to get some answers on my behalf.”

Hawke fixed him with a long, penetrating gaze. The Alienage seemed to grow quiet under the weight of her appraisal, but that was likely just a trick of his mind.

At last, she pushed off the stone wall with a scoff. “Look, if you two are shacking up together, good for you. As long as no one is taking advantage of anyone else, I don’t need all the sordid details, but… I am here, if you need to talk.” She took a step, then paused. “As long as it doesn’t affect the group. I’m hardly one to be giving relationship advice, but just so you know… if it doesn’t work out, you two still need to be able to work together. I need my team.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavy coinpurse. “I know missions with no loot suck. Divide that up among the three of you, with my gratitude.” With that, Hawke left the Alienage in her long, rolling strides, while several city elves scrambled to get out of her way.

Anders watched her leave with a heavy heart. He was simultaneously impressed by Hawke’s grit, miffed by her insinuations, and utterly sick of his own thoughts.

Izzy and Fenris were standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the Alienage, each lost in their own thoughts and looking thoroughly chagrined, so he headed towards them and held up the purse. “Is there anywhere safe in Lowtown to divvy up Hawke’s gratitude?”

The rogue led them a short distance to a nearby alley, sheltered on three sides and with no easy places to conceal an ambush. Anders tossed her the purse; she counted out the coins and quickly distributed them into three even piles atop a moldering crate with an alacrity borne of much practice at divvying loot. “Huh,” she said with knitted eyebrows. “Apparently we should betray Hawke more often – this is more than we made on the last four missions combined.”

“Bribery?” Anders ventured.

“Apology, more likely,” Izzy corrected. “Well, boys, I need to scrounge up some supplies if I’m going to booby-trap your nest. I’ll swing by in the next few days – so please do most of your boning in front of windows and walk around naked and stuff. As a token of gratitude, of course.” She somehow managed to brush against both of them on her way out of the alley, sashaying her way towards the Hanged Man.

And then he was alone with Fenris. Which, outside of the mansion, felt… odd. He grabbed his coins and turned so he wouldn’t have to see Fenris’s face, see what thoughts the warrior’s expression revealed – or worse – concealed. He couldn’t bear to see indifference or disgust on those stunning features. Not now.

He called softly over his shoulder, “I should head to the clinic. I need to dig through my books and see what I can find for home defense, and hopefully make some progress on a spell for your armor. And I’m sure Lirene and Keshen could use a break.” He took a steadying as he strode toward the main streets of Lowtown.

“Alright,” was the warrior’s only reply. And then Fenris was walking next to him, pocketing his coins, face obscured by unruly bangs. And he continued to walk beside him, even as they passed the street that led back to Hightown. “You… don’t have to escort me - I’m a big boy,” he said in confusion.

“I know,” Fenris said.

“And there should be five or six wirium shield vials in the mansion – you just have to flare your tattoos and remove them from the box.”

This discovery was yet another breakthrough he owed to Tershiron; the dispel he had used to conceal his mana-drain wisps had later inspired a blended dispel and paralysis glyph; when placed on a small storage crate, the glyph kept that kept wirium vials in stasis. Unfortunately, reaching in to grab a vial had the unfortunate side effect of paralyzing the hand that reached in, but it turned out that Fenris’s ghost form was immune to the effect.

“I know.”

Anders grew quiet, trying to determine the warrior’s motives. By the time he reached the clinic, the only conclusion he had reached was that the elf was an enigma and he’d have better luck guessing what Hawke’s mabari was thinking at any given moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh… aren’t you forgetting something, Anders???
> 
> Exciting nautical terminology today! I’m not sure if this happens to other people, but I went looking for expressions a pirate might use that roughly translates to the shit hit the fan; I ended up getting sucked into a whole world of seafaring info from the Age of Sail. There are about 14 gazillion types of sailing ships, classified by mast quantity, sail type, overall size, number of guns, manning level/minimum number of sailors required to operate, keel shape, intended purpose, and so on ad infinitum. I also learned some basic sailing ship anatomy (though, honestly, this gets frustrating because many terms vary by vessel and origin – particularly when it comes to rigging) and learned some stuff about general necessities like the elm-tree pump.. and then, finally – literally hours later – remembered my initial task. Much like I am doing right now. 
> 
> Isabela’s nautical slang translations: 
> 
> Dance with Jack Ketch: to hang (slang based off an infamous English executioner, but we don’t need to think too much about realism because MAGIC. Also a semi-popular song, apparently.) 
> 
> Strike colors: surrender (lowering the flag that indicates a vessel’s allegiance.)


	20. Intentions

“Close your mouth, healer, or flies will get in.”

Anders shot Lirene a dirty look. “Weren’t you going back to the shop to give your daughter a break?”

“I don’t blame you… he is a looker. But I’m not sure if you realize how obvious you are when you stare at him with those big doe eyes,” Lirene continued, blithely ignoring his question.

“I don’t have doe eyes,” Anders grumped. Things were not going well if even practical, businesslike Lirene noticed his lust-addled obsession with the warrior.

To be fair, Fenris cut a striking figure. He hadn’t said much of anything since arriving at the clinic, but had been intermittently disappearing and returning with crates of supplies. Anders had had his hands full of work, but some part of him always seemed remotely aware of what Fenris was up to at any given moment. Thus far, the warrior had unloaded two crates of fresh linens, one of glass bottles for potions, and heaved half a dozen casks of pure grain alcohol onto a raised pallet in the back, presumably where clinicians could use it for antiseptic purposes.

On his most recent trip, he had returned with a hammer and a bag of nails, and was currently in the process of prying crates apart and reassembling them into sturdier cots. Given that half of his cots were actually just rotting doors atop empty barrels, the bar was relatively low.

Anders had been busy enough to avoid staring like an idiot for most of the evening; two dozen or so refugees had just returned home from day labor positions at the docks, only to discover that their block had been quietly smothered in a chokedamp fog. If the noxious gas had accumulated at night instead, they would have suffocated along with their unlucky, out-of-work neighbors. As it was, most bore respiratory damage from the hazardous fumes, and there was no treatment for that outside magic.

Once the most severe cases had been seen to, he selected eight willing volunteers from among the refugees with the mildest symptoms and gathered them together on an impromptu bench. He imbued his last lyrium vial with a restoration wisp, leaving it in the center of the bench as the wirium’s radius was one of the variables he wanted to test. It was a low-risk experiment; at worst, he would have to follow up and treat each person individually, but if it worked, he could greatly increase turnover at the clinic during disasters or epidemics.

Leaving the wisp to work its magic, he finished up with the remaining cases quickly and found himself strangely idle. He sought out Lirene – who had promised she was leaving over an hour ago – to get an update on clinic operations. In all regards, the clinic was thriving without his constant oversight. Templar raids had decreased, Lirene and Keshen had acquired two new assistants, and so far, it was rare for anything to crop up that traditional physicking or healing potions couldn’t manage.

Anders was simultaneously proud of the work they were doing and saddened that he was not a necessary component of it. He understood, of course, because he could analyze the feeling from a clinical distance. Being a healer was such an integral part of his identity that it was bound to be difficult to step back from the front-line work, even a little.

_Now if only I could think so clearly when it came to other matters…_

It was this thought that had drawn his eyes back to Fenris, which had then drawn Lirene’s sharp tongue in reference to his open mouth and the nonexistent flies. The warrior had removed his cuirass and pauldrons – refugees had been quite nervous around him in the spiky armor – exposing the rippling sinew of his arms as he performed manual labor without compunction. _Maker…_

“Alright, Lirene, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, but shove off. Your poor daughter is probably going to wet herself waiting for you to come take over the shop for a bit.”

Lirene laughed, a harsh, barking sound that didn’t seem to match her dainty frame but fully suited her no-nonsense personality. “It would probably do the girl some good to learn that there are worse things than spilling cider in front of _Gavin Tarvish,”_ she said, her voice taking on a mocking, sing-song quality on the evidently oft-repeated name. She patted Anders on the shoulder, looked around a final time, and headed out the door to Darktown.

Anders watched her leave, wondering to himself what it would be like to be raised by a woman equal parts impatient bully and warm-hearted problem-solver.

He went to check on the refugees being treated by the wirium and was eminently pleased with the results. All eight had fully regained respiratory function, with no noticeable reduction in spell range, and he ended up dispelling the wisp with more than three quarters of the lyrium potion remaining. Granted, the patient sample had all suffered only minor damage to their airway, but he was encouraged that the wisp could still work efficiently when spreading its efforts across multiple patients.

And then the clinic was empty save for the nostalgic sounds of carpentry radiating from the adroit, multi-faceted warrior. Anders ducked behind the curtain that led to his personal space, removed his coat, and hung it on a peg just inside the entryway. He grabbed the rusty toolbox that had been donated years ago by a retiring carpenter, and tucked a waterskin, two apples and a small sack of seeds and nuts into a pouch. Supplies in tow, he returned to the clinic and got to work.

_I could have done this ages ago. Why didn’t I ever try to spruce the place up a bit? Oh… that’s right, there was never time before. Damnit! How does Lirene do it? Oh… that’s right, assistants. Why didn’t I get assistants before? Damnit! Templars._

His thoughts continued in this fashion, babbling away, while his hands erected a large and sturdy - if not handsome - set of shelves to store clean linens and supplies on. He partially hammered in nails across a 10-foot stretch of the back wall at about shoulder height, then bent them at 90-degree angles. He wrapped wire around the ends of a long, thin rail and suspended it from the nails, resulting in a perfect rack to hang herb bundles to dry – a chronic problem in a clinic with 30-foot ceilings.

He was just finishing up a simple stepstool – for clients too young or too injured to easily get themselves onto a cot – when he noticed Fenris standing a few paces away, though of course he hadn’t heard the other man approach.

He pulled out the forgotten pouch of supplies and silently offered it to the warrior. Fenris hummed his appreciation as he pulled out the waterskin and took a long drink, then handed it back to Anders.

Anders stared at the skin, then looked out at the clinic. It was remarkable what a difference fresh linens and sturdy cots made. “Thank you,” he said, gesturing vaguely around him without looking at the warrior. “For all of this.”

“It was nothing. A better use of my time than drinking alone in the mansion.” He poked around in the pouch for a moment before adding, “Though I believe Lirene will be angry if we eat this instead of the meal she left for you twenty minutes ago.”

“Wow. She’s said it a hundred times, but I really am oblivious.” He hadn’t noticed her return or leave, and Lirene was not a stealthy woman. “Alright, where is this bounty?”

Anders stepped out to snuff the lantern, and then followed as Fenris led the way back to his private rooms. Since he had last been in the room a short time previously, the table had been set with plates, forks, and cups for two. Chairs and settings were placed at adjoining edges, rather than across from one another. A bottle of wine and a small, cloth-wrapped basket sat in the middle. _Oh, Lirene._

A pot of steaming spiced vegetables sat on the warming tray in the hearth, and next to it was what appeared to be a pie. _Oh, Maker, it’s her famous poultry pie._ He’d had it only once before; a savory filling with generous chunks of chicken, goose, or duck meat - depending on what was available - mixed with potatoes, peas, carrots, and a thick, aromatic gravy, all baked into a flaky, butter-brushed pie crust.

His stomach grumbled as soon as the heavenly aroma reached his nose.

He had devoured nearly half the pie before he paused to mentally thank Lirene for sharing the results of her culinary prowess. This was also when he noticed that Fenris had hardly eaten, but was instead picking at his first slice of pie while looking at his plate with a distracted, thousand-league stare.

“Not to your liking?” Anders asked, surprised.

Fenris looked up with a small shake of his head and a few blinks. “Hmm? No, the meal is quite satisfactory.”

“Which is obvious given that you’ve eaten…three bites?”

Fenris looked down at his plate as though seeing it for the first time. “Ah. I have been thinking,” he said, before pointedly taking a large bite.

 _What are you thinking about, are you afraid of me now, why did you follow me here, why did you renovate the clinic, what is going on, why won’t you talk to me…_ all the things he wanted to scream bottled up in his throat. He took a deep breath, keeping his tone carefully neutral as he asked, “Anything you want to talk about?”

He waited, busying himself by grabbing the wine bottle and using a small vortex of force magic to free the cork before filling each cup. He drained his, topped it off, and then returned to his pie before Fenris answered.

“I have been thinking on everything.”

“Ah, is that all?” Anders asked, his tone bleakly wry.

Fenris huffed, a faint smile tugging at one side of his lips.

Anders waited.

Fenris took another bite of the pie, his face pensive. The silence stretched long before he spoke again. “I have been thinking on our time in the Fade. And demons.”

Anders clenched his jaw, bracing himself – it seemed his fears were playing out just as he’d imagined.

“I was opposed to rescuing Feynriel the first time. It would appear I was mistaken. He was not a lost cause. He did what I could not.” Fenris looked distinctly uncomfortable, saying those words, but then, Anders knew the discomfort of having one’s worldview shaken. “However. I do not say this to anger you, but I am disquieted by your… Justice. Vengeance. There is a great deal I do not understand, but at present, it is a dangerous thing. It is malicious now, whatever it once was.”

Anders’ mind was instantly crowded by the whirlwind of thoughts and justifications that sprung to his lips, but he remained quiet, patiently untangling and ordering the chaos. Anders always thrived in turmoil, was at his best when he could find the calm center as a storm raged around him.

At length, he responded. “I don’t know exactly what is happening, but I’m not convinced it’s dangerous.” His words came out softly, contemplatively, as Anders continued to look inward.

“You were completely subjugated by it, and yet you still do not believe it dangerous?”

“That was in the Fade. Hardly a fair reference point.”

“It does not always happen in the Fade.” Fenris said pointedly.

Anders’ eyes flicked to Fenris’s face, surprised to find a hint of worry in his expression, not the blank mask Anders had expected. He couldn’t hold those piercing eyes, however, and shifted his gaze just over the warrior’s shoulder. “It’s not enough data. Justice is important to me.” His jaw clenched as he steeled himself. “But I get it – this isn’t really what you signed on for.”

It was an escape. He respected the warrior enough to offer an easy out. And yet… the image of Fenris standing before Vengeance, questioning it as he couldn’t, gave him courage to try and find something redeemable in the situation. He couldn’t leave the escape dangling there without an alternative. “What you said, about reversing the process – something happened, when you said that. It felt like… I don’t even know how to explain it. Like there was an internal coup attempt, or something. But I think you were right - Justice is still in there. Perhaps the corruption is reversible. That you were the one to push for that information… well, that’s why I needed to thank you.”

Fenris slumped forward, elbows thudding to the table on either side of his plate as he ran his hands through his hair. “I do not deserve your thanks. That a demon played upon my fears so easily is… disturbing. I cannot believe I failed, that I turned on Hawke, on you…”

Anders shook his head, amused and baffled. He shouldn’t be surprised that Fenris ignored both doors he had opened regarding where this conversation might lead, but instead forged his own, thrillingly unpredictable way forward. Anders moved his chair a little closer to the corner, and, very slowly, very gently, placed a hand on the warrior’s back. He had never before been brave enough to touch Fenris when he was distressed, but the warrior did not pull away or rip his heart out. A good start.

“I attacked you.”

“It’s not your fault, Fenris. Demons play by different rules; mages go through intensive training to defend themselves from it. It’s not a simple matter of being strong enough.”

Fenris looked at him sidelong. In a low, brittle tone, he replied, “I did not understand what it was like. To face a demon outside of combat.” He ignored the glass of wine in front of him and instead reached for the bottle, taking a long draught. Anders removed his hand and leaned back in his chair, guessing that the warrior needed some space.

Fenris held onto the bottle, staring at it as he continued, “Your demon claimed to avenge you by aiding other mages. To prevent other mages from being taken as you were taken.” His tone grew increasingly agitated, and his eyes flicked restlessly between the bottle and Anders. “Your scars…” he gritted out, his voice thick. “Why do you speak in abstractions, of ‘mages’ being tortured, abused?” 

Anders felt the familiar wave of panic, the disorienting loss of control… but he locked it back up in his mind. No. Those nightmares did not belong in the daylight. He couldn’t talk about it now, maybe not ever.

“Because,” he said, though it felt like the words were choking him, “it happens to ‘mages’. Many mages. Once you take away a person’s ability to defend themselves, they will be abused by the people in power. It’s not an abstraction, just a fact.”

Fenris looked at him then, a long, hard look for the first time since they had left the Fade. He breathed a few deep breaths, as he habitually did before practicing the Idos. “I think I understand,” he replied quietly. A while later, the warrior’s piercing gaze dropped to his plate. Still more silence elapsed before he added, “I have spent years hating my former master. I have felt such hatred for him, at times more gnawing than hunger, more pressing than the need to breathe. I feel hatred for him, for slavery, for the entire corrupt system that grinds Tevinter beneath its heel.” He paused, taking a breath, steadying the voice that had grown in ferocity with each word.

When he spoke again, his tone was softer, steady. “And yet, much of what I consider to be good in my life now is a direct result of my time as a slave. Meeting the Fog Warriors, meeting Hawke." He paused, just slightly, and added, “You. Even these brands… all of it is an ingredient in what I am now, what I am capable of. I will put an end to Danarius, and then it will be done, and he will no longer have power over me.” Fenris sighed, a frustrated noise that seemed to hang in the air like a heavy fog. “What I am attempting to communicate, inelegantly, is that – despite the misery – that time shaped me. Nothing is wasted in a life.” 

The warrior turned to his food, picking at the savory pastry while Anders stared, awed. He really shouldn’t be shocked by Fenris’s astute deductions and insights by now. Without quite knowing how to say it, the warrior had not only seen and spoken to a part of Anders that he had kept firmly locked away, but had also managed to disguise his perception in the plausible deniability of self-reflection.

It was visceral. His words were clearly unpracticed... awkward, raw, insightful, and honest. Perfect, really. 

Conversation was abandoned, for Anders to pursue his own winding thoughts, and for Fenris to do whatever enigmatic, brilliant things he did in his own mind.

The warrior’s words insinuated themselves into his brain and rattled around. His first instinct was, of course, to try - and quickly fail - to dismiss them. _All well and good for Fenris; he is utter perfection. But I’m not. My life experience has produced a hatred of the Templars and the Circle that might be the very thing poisoning Justice. But obviously that’s not the lesson._

_So, what... that an albatross be treated as a crucible, to smelt a purer compound and remove the debris? Maybe the point is that I just haven’t passed this trial. Yet?_

Fenris discovered that the cloth-filled basket contained a dozen sticky, honey-drenched sweet buns; Anders was surprised when the warrior wordlessly offered him the first one with a questioning raise of his dark brows, given his proclivity for dessert. Both began to shun the cups, drinking directly from the wine bottle at irregular intervals.

 _Or maybe what comes of that hatred is just meant to be – this_ is _the finished product. The world does need martyrs, after all,_ he thought with macabre humor. A new meaning to Fenris’s words occurred to him just on the tail of the bleak aphorism. _Or perhaps it just means that I lack the perspective to properly make value judgements of the present moment. No one really knows what their actions will bring about in the long course of history. The bad of today is the fuel of tomorrow._

He took a deep breath. That felt true. That was tied to many things, he knew without knowing how. His attempts at mind-reading were a perfect example; he made guesses at the thoughts of others, but more often than not, his guesses – shaped by his experiences and expectations – were entirely wrong. The disasters he anticipated, the reactions he feared, were often benign.

He needed something to test this theory with, a way to ground the abstract and wide-reaching insight into something smaller, more tangible. Anders’ voice seemed loud to him after the long silence, when he finally spoke. “You were right, you know.”

At Fenris’s questioning look, he continued, “I am a terrible mind reader. I was pretty convinced that Vengeance had scared you off.”

“I am… concerned. That is true. But I am not easily frightened.” 

Anders grinned faintly at the understatement. _I am_ , he thought, though he kept it to himself. Putting voice to that thought was an exercise in futility. Fenris couldn’t offer reassurances – he had even said as much – and even if he did, it would be a hollow thing. No one could predict the future, what changes of heart, or unforeseen circumstances, or sudden harms it might hold. But his present enjoyment of Fenris’s company wasn’t a waste just because it might not last.

He needed to remember that.

And, suddenly, he remembered the perfect means to do just that. Resolutely, Anders excused himself for a moment, citing the need to wash the honey from his fingers. He ducked behind the curtain to his bedroom, and, after washing his hands – _it’s not a lie if I do actually wash my hands -_ and digging around a bit, he found a scrap piece of leather that had been torn off an old tome.

One of the reasons he had been so drawn to Karl back in the Circle was the older mage’s passion for magic; he was drawn to creativity and discovery just for the sheer pleasure of novelty and innovation. Karl had taught him many innocuous tricks and playful illusions; a showy display of fireworks woven of air and light, a method for imbuing a small crystal with lightning to make an impromptu lamp. The pragmatic and whimsical uses of magic were always Anders’ favorites, and also, the very ones that the Circle outlawed. _Maker forbid we do anything fun or useful with magic._

One such benign trick was the intention glyph. He had never made one himself, though he had worn Karl’s as a necklace from the moment it was gifted to him until almost a year after his death. The trinket had been torn off and lost during a Templar raid, and though the irony was not lost on Anders, it had been time to let it go.

He reached across the Veil, gathering magical energy in the hand that held the scrap. Instead of weaving a spell, however, he wove a simple intention, tracing it in the air above the leather scrap with his finger. _Nothing is wasted in a life._

The words seeped into the leather; bright, pale-blue script, spinning and coalescing into an abstract, filigreed pattern in the center. He clenched his fist decisively, fire and force magic combining with the intention. When he opened it again, the glyph’s pattern was burned into the leather. The mere touch of it on his skin was a gentle reminder of his intention, a magical intimation of this resolution.

He smiled. It was a liberating experience in more ways than one.

Anders tucked the scrap into his satchel – he’d attach it to a cord later - as he stepped back through the curtain. Fenris was at the wash basin, efficiently scouring the dishes with a rag sudsy with lye soap.

Anders walked up behind the warrior, wrapping his arms around the slightly shorter man and snaking his hands up Fenris’s willowy frame to splay across his chest. Fenris flinched slightly, then relaxed, leaning into the embrace.

Anders took a deep breath, filling his lungs with Fenris’s masculine, woodsy scent, then rested his chin on the warrior’s shoulder.

“The hand-washing went well, I take it,” Fenris said wryly.

Anders grinned, knowing the warrior couldn’t see it. Fenris, more than anyone he’d ever known, didn’t need him to fill the air with explanations.

He held the elf close, even as he finished scrubbing the dishes. He didn’t let go when Fenris realized he needed to move to collect clean water to rinse the dishes, and instead just let them all sink back into the sudsy washbasin. The warrior then reached up with a wet, sudsy hand to gently cover one of Anders’ atop his chest.

“It is late,” Fenris said, his voice rumbling simultaneously through the air and beneath Anders’ fingers. “Do you wish to stay here tonight?”

Anders nuzzled more firmly against the warrior’s neck. “I need to collect some books and write a quick note for Lirene. And then I’d like to return to the mansion and get to work putting your arm to sleep. If you don’t mind, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter: _How Anders Got His Groove Back_. I’m pretty done with the self-conscious Anders, but it felt like too big of a leap to go from ‘burn it all’ to ‘good guy Anders’ without a little(copious, ample, overabundant) self-conscious waffling in between. But, there comes a point when we all gotta buck up, buttercup. 
> 
> Also, uhhhh….Dude, Anders… think with your brain. You’re still forgetting something.
> 
> PS: Tomorrow we’re headed back to bone town. 
> 
> PPS: Happy New Year


	21. A Mad Impulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated FBS for m/m explicit full-blown smutty times ahead. If you wish to skip the naughty bits, you still can (and definitely should) read up to the first horizontal line.

“One,” Fenris said quietly.

“And a half!” Anders gasped. The half mattered. To him, as well as his dignity and quivering muscles.

He staggered over to sit on the low wall and took a long sip from his waterskin. _Maker it’s hot down here._ He breathed deeply, splashing water from the pool on his face. Fenris came over with a hand outstretched, taking take a sip from the waterskin when Anders passed it over. The warrior was hardly sweating – damn him for making it look so easy – and was watching Anders with barely restrained amusement.

Anders groaned, and then tipped himself sideways to splash into the mysterious underground pool. The cool water was like a balm. _I should have thought of this weeks ago,_ he thought idly as he surfaced and floated on his back. He drifted for a time, weightless, staring at the ceiling while his muscles recuperated a bit. He noticed the small things: the way the water buoyed the hair around his neck, on his arms, on his bare chest; the faint prickling of skin receptors unaccustomed to the odd drag; the arbitrary motion of billowing fabric as his britches shifted slowly but restlessly in the still pond; the way the water seemed to have its own sound, some background hum that played strange acoustic tricks on every other noise.

When his breathing returned to normal and his muscles no longer cramped like a million tiny vices, he shifted his gaze back to the room and noticed Fenris was still nearby. He was suddenly gripped by a mad impulse; he stood, shaking his head vigorously. The elf made an affronted noise as water rained down on him; he then staggered backwards at the subsequent wave as Anders cupped his hand and _splashed._

Fenris looked down at his wet tunic and leggings, then looked up at Anders in baffled indignation. “You… you…”

Anders gave an impish grin and splashed him again.

Fenris spluttered, then marched over with murder in his eyes. Anders yelped and stumbled backwards, tripping back into the water. He kicked his legs wildly, raising tempestuous columns of water to deter the rampaging warrior. Fenris, head turned and eyes screwed shut, reached in and grabbed him by the wrist to haul him away from his ammunition - but Anders had better leverage; he braced his feet against the low wall and pulled back, yanking the warrior into the pool nearly on top of him.

Fenris did an odd scramble until his feet were under him, then surged to the surface. He struggled to remove the wet mop of hair from his eyes. Finally able to see, he stood a moment, bristling, rivulets pouring down his face, staring daggers at Anders.

“You… you asinine, spur-galled mammet!” the warrior barked. “ _Kaffas,_ of all the immature, indecorous stunts -”

Fenris was interrupted by another splash. Anders followed that up with an over-acted scowl and his prickly elf impersonation. “The easiest fight is the one your opponent is unprepared for.”

He should have seen it coming, but his eyes bulged when Fenris pounced at him. He dove over the wall of the indoor pool and darted for the stairs with a lifetime of escape guiding his feet. Wet feet slapped stone right behind him. At the top of the stairs, he scrambled left, grabbing and swinging around the railing to preserve his momentum as he darted up the second flight. A wild giggle escaped his lips; there was a uniquely gleeful terror in evading pursuit.

Anders bolted into his room and slammed the door, panting, laughing, heart galloping. _Escape!_

Fenris ghosted through the door and turned, rematerializing just as Anders yelped and scrambled back away from the door. “Cheating! That’s cheating!”

Fenris advanced, still dripping wet, and Anders held up his hands. “Stop right there! I’ll…” he looked down at his hands, recognizing with chagrin that he was ludicrously defenseless against Fenris. “I’ll tickle you, I swear it.”

“Your threats are empty. I am not ticklish.” Anders was pretty sure the warrior was trying to contain a smirk, but it was too early to rule out bloodlust.

Anders dove for the door and grabbed the handle, but Fenris was faster; he caught him by the wrist and spun him around. The warrior’s face was inches from his own, his breath coming in shallow pants. He took another step, pressing Anders firmly against the door, when it became apparent that Fenris was… quite aroused.

* * *

Instantaneously, his perception of events changed; his racing heartbeat and panting breaths were no longer symptoms of exhilaration, of wild adrenaline. No, not with the warrior draped so possessively against him. The feel of Fenris’s body, his regimented strength, the way he radiated heat like a bonfire; it all coalesced, flooding his mind with delicious memories. Sudden craving shot through him, blotting out all else.

Anders dropped his chin slightly, his lips hovering a hair’s breadth from Fenris’s. _This blighted elf_. They hadn’t talked about it – even acknowledged it, really – since the tumultuous sequela of their previous mind-blowing romp, but Anders had lost track of how many times he had snuck off for frantic and short-lived self-gratification fueled by fevered memories of the experience. Even as a wildly libidinous teenager, Anders couldn’t recall ever being as chronically aroused as he was around Fenris. The warrior woke something in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he was starting to wonder if he could ever slake this addiction.

It couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds since the atmosphere had shifted from playful to sizzling, seconds of prolonged, heated eye contact, but Anders was already so hard he had to palm himself upright in his pants to avoid the painful angle at which he jutted against the threadbare fabric.

With his hair and britches still dripping onto the tile, chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, Anders was suddenly hot - far too hot, far too eager. Hoping not to humiliate himself in front of the magnetic, prickly, irresistible visage of masculinity that was pressed so deliciously against him, he blurted out the only delaying tactic he could think of that might give him a chance of settling down some. “I vaguely recall being told I could explore.”

Fenris looked up at him, hair slicked back, his expression so much clearer without the wispy bangs shrouding his eyes. The warrior was looking at him with open hunger, but the expression flickered as he held Anders’ gaze. Something softened his features briefly, followed by something else, something harder – caution? Doubt? A nervous bubble formed in Anders’ stomach, cooling the ardor that had snuck up on him with all the subtlety of a druffalo.

But before he could dwell on Fenris’s uncharacteristic hesitation, the warrior leaned forward, his breath hot on the sensitive skin just beneath Anders’ ear as he murmured, “Undress me. We shall see whether there is time for exploration.” When he pulled back, Fenris’s face held nothing but dauntless desire and something akin to a challenge. Anders’ eyes closed as he paused to appreciate Fenris’s wicked tone.

Following an impish impulse, he ducked down and spun, freeing himself from Fenris’s grasp – _huh, that was the same motion as Cloud Hands into_ _Single Lash –_ and gave a self-congratulatory shimmy as he turned to face the warrior, essentially reversing their positions. Fenris regarded him with a look that was so uniquely Fenris it made his heart flutter – a quirked eyebrow on one side of his face, a corner of his mouth raised on the other side, as if he were waging an internal war between feeling proud and suspicious. If anything, mildly impressed seemed to win out.

Anders grinned proudly, pleased that Fenris seemed pleased. Fenris took a step back and leaned against the door, his hands relaxed at his side, his expression strained, like a carefully manicured garden atop a lava field.

As if drawn by the movement, Anders followed him forward a step. He met the warrior’s striking gaze, fingers reaching out to blindly pluck at the top toggle of his tunic, index and middle finger grazing the warrior’s chest as he leveraged it from its loop. Fenris’s eyes were locked on his, boring into them. The second toggle slipped its loop. The third. Anders swallowed. His hands worked their way down, slow and meticulous, but the heated, hawk-eyed stare Fenris pinned him with made each movement feel more brazen, more intimate the farther down he went.

Fenris’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, and Anders couldn’t decide if it was an intentional tease or an unconscious reaction. Either way, it made Anders’ mouth go dry, and drew his eyes down to those damnably perfect lips. The sixth toggle came undone.

His body was thrumming with tension by the time he freed the twelfth and final toggle. Anders realized he’d been holding his breath and had to close his eyes to consciously let it out. Feeling lightheaded, he flicked his gaze back up to those mossy green depths, maintaining eye contact as he slid his palms up the smooth expanse of Fenris’s stomach beneath the loose flaps of the tunic. He rotated his hands, using the backs of his knuckles to drag lightly over the warrior’s small, peaked nipples. A slight hitch in Fenris’s breath echoed in Anders’ mind for a short eternity; it was the only sound in the silent room aside from Anders’ own panting.

Anders again flipped his hands, smoothing the parted halves of the tunic toward Fenris’s shoulders while sliding his thumbs along the elegant arc of the warrior’s collarbones. With a graceful shrugging motion and a slight lean forward, Fenris let the tunic cascade off his shoulders and into a puddle on the floor. The warrior’s hands started to reach up, but he seemed to catch himself, stilled them back to his sides. “Undo my belt,” he said, his voice a rough whisper, his tone just shy of commanding.

Anders could barely suppress a groan at the unconscious hand movements; it was thrilling to catch those little signs of Fenris’s impatience, of his willpower. 

Anders’ hands reached up at the same time his eyes dropped down; the belt had an unusual style that tucked the ends inside, which made the closure surprisingly difficult to unlatch without first drawing out the ends. He only got a brief peek, however, as Fenris’s voice cut in, “Eyes up. Look at me, Anders.” His spine tingled as a shiver raced up it; the memory of those words drove him to distraction on more than one occasion since last they had been uttered.

He complied, eyes trailing slowly up the warrior’s willowy, hairless torso, appreciating the view, until he once again met Fenris’s eyes. The warrior’s pupils had dilated, his breathing was visibly shallow. Even – especially? - in his unconscious and automatic responses, Fenris was maddeningly, searingly seductive.

Blindly, Anders felt his way around the dastardly belt, realizing for the first time how low it hung on Fenris’s hips. It felt so racy, so forward - his fingers feeling their way across the elf’s lower belly, knuckles grazing bare skin as he groped for the ends, looking the warrior in the eye while he tried to release the belt’s clasp. He should have known that his hurried trysts would pale in comparison; the deliberate seduction, the attention required to carefully disrobe the warrior, it was erotic in a way he’d never dreamed. The silence, the proximity… it seemed to charge the very air between them, sensitize his every nerve.

At last he managed to free the clasp, letting it follow the tunic to the floor as his hands immediately sought the button of Fenris’s leggings. He was much more proficient at this, able to let his focus drift, noticing how the faint light of dawn was softly illuminating the warrior’s silhouette and refracting off his damp hair. The light played magical tricks on that hair, causing it to glow, brilliant and almost transparent. He was staring, and that was apparently fine. _I can’t believe I’m allowed to do this now…_

The clasp fell loose in his fingers, and after a few impatient tugs, he managed to slide the leggings over Fenris’s hips and down to the ground. Fenris finally let his gaze drop, reaching down to pull the leggings from around his ankles and toss them aside, where they were immediately forgotten.

Anders had carefully kept his eyes on the fabric as he tugged the britches down; the moment his eyes trailed back up to Fenris’s naked erection, his whole belly clenched with the fire that radiated from his groin. He again met the warrior’s eyes, silently asking for permission to touch, or for further instructions, or anything to pull him from this stupefied, boneless haze of desire.

Fenris seemed pleased by that reaction; he reached out to hold the side of Anders’ face, his thumb lightly grazing Anders’ bottom lip. _This man_. Hands that snapped bones and crushed hearts, hands that wielded steel like a god of war, yet so gentle on Anders. “Good,” Fenris murmured, then dropped his hand and turned, taking a few short strides to the nightstand. He reached for the much more modestly sized flask of oil Anders had strategically placed atop it after their first encounter, realizing that leaving the room to draw from the comically large cask was impractical.

When he turned back, a faint flush had spread across his cheeks, but Anders’ eyes were immediately drawn to the glistening oil coating his hands. Fenris’s voice was low and gritty, flagrantly sinful as he said, simply, “I want you to watch me.” He took a step backwards until his calves hit the mattress, then sat, leaning back, bracing on one arm while the other wrapped around the tip of his heavy erection. With a confidence Anders could only dream of, the warrior began to stroke himself. He squeezed in unhurried, frictionless patterns, replete with the soft but deliciously obscene noises and slurps of the ample lubrication. Fenris was all confident nonchalance, and it was incredible.

Anders’ mouth went dry. He swallowed, licked his lips, swallowed again. He had no idea there were voyeuristic tendencies buried deep inside him, but his body’s response to such a taboo display seemed unequivocal proof. Watching Fenris touch himself was unlike anything; the thoughts and sensations it evoked defied description. He was vaguely aware of contradictory feedback in his own body; his back and abdomen went rigid, like a bowstring taut enough to snap, but a soft, fuzzy feeling clouded his thoughts; it was euphoric and dizzying, likely the result of his heart’s strange, arrhythmic fluttering.

All of that bodily feedback was secondary, nearly inconsequential next to the visual and auditory feast that commandeered nearly all traces of his attention. Fenris. Fenris, flushed, damp, and achingly beautiful. Fenris was stroking himself. Putting on this obscene little display, for him.

No, it wasn’t just a display. Fenris’s chin rested on his chest, but his gaze was trained up through his lashes, watching Anders through eyes darkened by oceanic pupils just barely limned in green. His lips were parted; shallow, unsteady breaths a stark juxtaposition to the lackadaisical grace with which he palmed himself. Fenris was watching him and getting off on it; the display wasn’t just for Anders – Fenris was being fueled by the desperation that must be so conspicuous on his own face.

It was dirty and obscene and crazy hot.

Fenris’s eyes flickered shut at the involuntary noises that bubbled from Anders’ throat. His hips left the mattress as he thrust once, twice into his fist. _Maker, those hips,_ straining up, wild and so incredibly sensual. Anders was as hard as a stone. His hand darted down to the bulge in his pants, hips making weak, involuntary thrusts in time to Fenris’s strokes.

Fenris looked about as riled as he felt; deep, quiet rumbles boiled up from his throat on every few exhaled breaths, and his jaw alternated between tense, grinding ferocity and slack, open want. It was like mutual torture, to stand there, wanting Fenris, desperate to be on and in and around the elf, but merely able to watch.

And then Fenris’s eyelids parted, pinning Anders with his gaze. “Come here,” he rasped.

Anders was frozen, lust-addled, for an indeterminate amount of time before the words sank in. The delayed reaction worked in his favor; he managed to avoid diving forward at the invitation, as he surely would have if he were thinking clearly. Instead, in the brief pause he rallied, taking deliberate - if quick - paces until he stood between the warrior’s parted thighs.

Fenris made a strangled sound when his eyes landed on the soaking trail of precum Anders had left in his britches, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed a deep inhale through his nose. _Smelling me?_ Anders shivered.

The warrior leaned forward, moving the hand he had been bracing on from the bed to gently circle Anders’ wrist. And then he was pulling, guiding Anders down until his hand covered Fenris’s on his thick shaft. Anders watched, hypnotized, as their hands slid long strokes up the beautiful, shapely expanse of the swollen cock. It was mesmerizing. He squeezed Fenris’s fingers beneath his, then guided them both up to circle the fat cockhead and tease lightly at the leaking slit. Fenris’s abdomen clenched, a groan tearing past his lips.

The warrior released his grasp on Anders’ wrist, and, eyes closed, he made quick, one-handed work of Anders’ drawstring, removing Anders’ britches in a matter of moments. It was uncanny how good the warrior was at undressing him, but he didn’t have the faculties to think on it.

Fenris’s hand left his own shaft, reaching out; long, clever fingers, still slick with the combination of oil and his own precum, danced lightly, teasingly over his aching flesh. His cock pulsed under those skilled fingers with a pang of lust. The breathless, whimpering gasp he made caused Fenris’s eyes to snap up to his, lips parted as if to drink in Anders’ hunger.

“Perfect. _Fenedhis,_ you are so perfect like this Anders. Greedy. Aching.” He groaned, voice low and punctuated by sharp inhales as he continued thickly, “I would keep you like this, just like this, for hours. Days.” The words spilled from Fenris’s lips as a growling, incoherent murmur, but they reached Anders’ ears as a dark promise. Some tiny, smothered part of his mind, still capable of rational thought, realized that Fenris was showing his hand; who would have thought that the bristling, broody warrior would have such a preference. Anders would laugh, if he wasn’t so breathless and aching for release. Fenris had a kink for _desire_ , for desperation.

The thought was like an electric surge throughout his body, trails of want that lead straight to his groin. He couldn’t wait. His body took the initiative his foggy mind seemed incapable of. Mechanically, dizzily, he toed his britches over his feet. A hand lifted to push Fenris backwards, and then his body was leaning forward, crawling onto the bed.

He slithered up Fenris’s body, moaning breathlessly as his erection slid deliciously against the warrior’s. He left one hand on Fenris’s abdomen, lifting the other beside his head to brace himself as he bent down again, lips hovering just above the other man’s. When Fenris leaned up to close the distance, Anders felt the coiling of his sleek abdominal muscles, the anchoring pull of his powerful lower back and thighs. He savored it all as he melted into the warrior’s kiss.

And melt he did. Something was different about this kiss, wholly outside of Anders’ experience. It might have been the slow, luxuriating depth, or the responsiveness of Fenris’s lips to his every movement, a reactiveness that willingly gave up as much as it hungrily took. Unlike the desperate, greedy kisses that came before, this one treasured, indulged, exalted. This was a kiss that poured through his body like honey; his entire being was warmed by it. The gentle adoration that radiated from their joined lips was terrifying and exhilarating.

Just as gently, they parted, and his eyes met Fenris’s in wonder. _I… am in trouble,_ Anders realized for the first time. This wasn’t an infatuation, an obsession. He’d never experienced anything like that kiss before.

His mind immediately shied away from the thought. He pulled back and reached over, dazed, blindly feeling about for the dish of oil.

Fenris’s hand on his wrist stopped him. The warrior’s eyes blazed the moment their gaze met, but his expression was inscrutable. Something flickered there, something confused. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, Fenris was sitting up, arms circling him, eyes fluttering shut as he closed the distance. This kiss was fierce, not like the soul-searing tenderness of moments before. The voracious pressure of his lips, of his delving tongue, was a vivid reminder of the dangerous desperation that had inflamed Anders beyond comprehension during their previous romp.

Anders, still reeling from the confusingly evocative kiss, gladly retreated to this more familiar territory. He met the warrior’s passion in kind, chasing his kisses and yielding to the demands of Fenris’s lips and tongue in turn. This heated press of lips was fueled on pure animalistic instinct, leaving no room for thought.

Fenris attempted to roll him onto his back, but Anders resisted; he didn’t have much leverage, sitting up with the mage atop him. Instead, Anders easily tipped him back onto the mattress, breaking their kiss. He liberally coated his hand in oil, which he then drizzled and spread across the warrior’s shaft, intending to turn his attentions to the elf's deeply flustered cock. Fenris seemed to have other plans; he gripped under Anders' arms and, in an astonishing display of strength, hauled him up until they were face to face.

 _Such feral strength._ It spurred him into action. He captured the warrior’s sultry mouth with his lips, simultaneously reaching behind him to circle his entrance with an oiled finger. The tip pressing past the tight ring of his entrance elicited a small shiver, and the slow stretch as he plunged inside elicited a low whine that was swallowed in Fenris’s hungry kiss.

Anders needed to shift his weight back for better access; he canted his hips, lifted up on his knees and braced himself with an arm, but he was achingly aware of the loss of warm, damp warrior flesh against his chest. He needed access, but he _really_ needed to be touching Fenris. And, somehow, Fenris realized the conundrum almost immediately.

He pressed his palms up against Anders’ shoulders, lifting only enough to take Anders’ weight off the hand he was propping himself up with. Sinewy arms held him effortlessly, suspended him almost as if Fenris was doing a pushup against him, while Anders was freed to stroke and pet his side, chest, abdomen, any skin he could reach. He pressed a second finger inside himself at the same time he splayed his other hand just beneath the warrior’s hairless perineum and dragged upwards, palm and fingers smoothing up the warrior’s testicles and over his rigid length. A third finger shortly followed, too impatient to draw the process out.

Looking into those blazing, dilated eyes, Anders was gripped by the same mad impulse that had begun all of this. Something feral and deviant in him thickened his voice as he murmured, “Mmmm…look at how hard you are. You’re _aching_ for me, aren’t you Fenris?” He moved his hand and dropped his hips with a roll for emphasis. “You and I both know what you want, so why don’t you just take it?”

Fenris’s whole body tensed. His lip twitched up, almost in a snarl, and something predatory glinted in his eye. Panted breaths were his only response for a long time, long enough that Anders felt his hips squirm, an unconscious and frankly ridiculous ploy to remind the warrior that he was still there.

At length, Fenris’s features smoothed marginally, and his voice was measured, if pressured, when he replied. “I will. Repeatedly.” A pause. “But first, I want…” he trailed off as a flicker of uncertainty crept into his expression. His gaze flicked to the side, then back up at Anders, as though he had said too much.

Anders had to consciously still his rolling hips. The simple movement of thrusting created a feedback loop, tapping into primal urges that only heightened the sensation of his arousal rubbing against Fenris’s, which made him want to thrust more. With great effort he managed, leaning in until his lips grazed the slender blade of the warrior’s ear, and breathed against his heated skin, “What, Fenris? What do you want?”

Still, Fenris hesitated.

“Tell me…” Anders urged, not quite begging.

Fenris bit back a moan. Between pants, he rumbled, “You. On top.” Anders buried his head in the warrior’s shoulder, muffling the long groan that escaped his lips. Those words, even if they were not quite what he wanted to say…those words in Fenris’s voice...

It was too much. With a final swipe of lubrication, Anders lifted himself up on his knees, reaching behind him to steady the warrior’s erection. It took a few tries – he had prepared himself, but fingers couldn’t properly stretch him the way the warrior’s girth did – but he finally found the right angle to impale himself with Fenris’s thick shaft.

His head fell forward with a groan, equal parts discomfort and euphoria. At the same time, Fenris’s head thrashed to the side; his snarling moan echoed throughout the small chamber.

Anders frantically darted his hands forward to brace himself on Fenris’s chest, unable to move, hovering as he adjusted to the stretch. He balanced on the precarious edge of discomfort, eyes clenched shut, traitorous body begging for more while his mind warned him to take it slow.

And then Fenris’s hand reached up, carding through his wet locks to brush the loose strands of hair from his forehead. His fingers curled, gliding his knuckles down Anders’ cheek in a remarkably delicate caress. It was a symphony of opposites; the gentle gesture, the softness of the skin over the warrior’s knuckles, all so different from his calloused, rough hands and, well, general approach to life.

It also drove Anders wild, though he had no idea why such a simple touch could be so erotic. With the brush of his knuckles, Fenris set nerves tingling throughout his body, drowning out the discomfort and leaving only need in its place. Throbbing, urgent, aching need.

With careful control, ready to jerk back up if necessary, Anders lowered himself slowly but steadily down Fenris’s length. It wasn’t necessary; once his body opened for the warrior, nothing existed but pleasure.

He sank all the way down, his ass flush against the warrior’s rigid thighs. And then he took what he had wanted since their previous encounter, he took as much of Fenris as he could and writhed for more. He rose up on his knees and sank back down in long strokes that seemed to drag every vein and ridge over every sensitive nerve inside him. He alternated with fast, rolling hip motions that dragged the warrior’s fat cockhead torturously against his prostate.

Anders’ willpower was a brittle thing, when weighed against the inferno of desire Fenris had awoken in him after such a prolonged period of celibacy. Any thoughts of prolonging the experience evaporated at the sight of Fenris’s body clenching and writhing beneath him, at the electrifying, dirty little thrill of how fully Fenris’s shaft stretched and invaded him. Anders felt naughty, and he loved it.

His back arched, arms shifting down the bed to brace himself on either side of Fenris’s thighs. Leaning back, he rocked his hips in short, rapid movements, writhing on the thick girth inside him and whimpering in pleasure. His left hand lifted from the bed to briefly glide up his rigid erection that bobbed against Fenris’s stomach, then snaked up his own belly. Eyes screwed shut, his fingers grazed against his nipples; he was fully aware that he was being vulgar, yet knowing that only turned him on even more.

“Oh, fuck… Fenris, you feel so good…” his voice dropped to a guttural groan as he leaned forward, taking his pleasure with hard and fast rolls of his hips. “Is this what you wanted? Do you like…augh!... like watching me ride you?”

Fenris’s hips arched off the bed at his words, the warrior’s hands fisting into the sheets as he groaned. His mouth was moving, voice pitched low - too low to be sure what he said mere inches away, much less above the cacophony of their labored breaths and the sounds of flesh, of lubrication, of moans and gasps and whimpers. Anders’ shattered mind pieced together disjointed pieces based on his lip movements, something close to ‘ride me like … fuck yourself with my cock.”

 _So Isabela was right again… there IS a kinky little deviant under all that cool restraint._ Maker, it was suddenly too much to hope for. His brain couldn’t handle the possibility that Fenris’s libido extended farther than Anders realized; it sent electric jolts straight to his groin, threatening to push him over the edge. 

And then, as if recognizing the sudden spike of Anders’ arousal, Fenris set his own pace, hips thrusting up into Anders despite the weight of a larger man atop him. It was one of the hottest things Anders had ever experienced. _Maker, he’s so fucking strong…_

“Yes,” he heard himself begging, voice breathless and punctuated by each powerful strike of the warrior’s hips, “Yes, yes, just like that – harder, Fenris, augh! Fuck me like you mean it!”

Fenris did. Anders’ mind gave up, drowned in the onslaught of sensations. The stretch, the speed, the unrelenting force of hips lifting him off the bed while he held on and tried to meet each fevered thrust in kind. He’d never felt more explosively full than he did when Fenris gripped his hips and bucked beneath him.

His neglected cock bobbed with each brutal thrust; he couldn’t recall seeing it so flustered, flushed to a shade of purple and so hard the head was going pale. The pressure of Fenris’s thick head dragging against his prostate effectively milked him; seed dripped from his shaft in thick streams, once, twice. They weren’t orgasms, not exactly, but the pleasure was so acute that his begging resumed as incomprehensible, fevered gibberish.

And then Fenris moved his hand, gripping his weeping cock firmly in his fist, moving in time to each thrust. “Ah! Oh fuck, oh fuck, Fenris! Please… I can’t… I won’t last… oh, Fenris, _Fenris_!” 

Just as the name tore from his lips, he felt Fenris seize beneath him; it was the most magnificent, stunning, intensely erotic sight he had ever seen when the warrior’s head slammed back into the mattress. Anders thought he might burn up in the fire that flooded him, realizing his voice had pushed Fenris over the edge. He watched as the warrior crested, as his orgasm shook his slender frame, and it left Anders’ whole body tingling. The sight alone was enough to push him right to the edge.

Even as he felt the heat of the warrior’s seed pulsing into him, Fenris continued to stroke him, faster, gipping tighter, apparently intent on finishing him as well.

Anders was so close. And then Fenris spoke, voice broken but savage, “Damn you, come for me Anders. Come on my cock.”

_That voice…_

Anders let go. He didn’t so much tip over the edge as hurtle headlong off it. His vision blurred to static as his cock spilled in Fenris’s fist, a cry tearing up from the depths of his throat. His brain remotely registered the sight of his seed pooling in the warrior’s hand, splattering across his skin, marking his chest in wave after wave, until at last his cock was jerking and his hips writhing with pleasure akin to torment. Still, Fenris held him firmly, each tiny movement an agonizing ecstasy, until the last dregs of thin, opaque fluid were milked out of him.

Gasping, spent, he sat boneless atop Fenris for an indeterminate duration before he slumped forward, draping himself across the warrior like one of the blankets bunched at the foot of the bed. It took his brain a moment to slog through to the realization that he was larger than the elf and probably made for a rather suffocating blanket. This spurred him to inelegantly roll off to Fenis’s side, though the warrior hardly seemed to register any of it; he was panting, staring at the ceiling with a sated, distant expression. Anders recognized the hazed look - it was exactly how he felt.

As the euphoria faded, a languid, blissful drowsiness trickled in to replace it. His thoughts wandered like snow on the wind, flitting about with no goal, no urgency.

He realized he was drowsing when a noise encroached on the orgasmic haze, the sound of a door latch clicking quietly. It took a minute, but eventually his brain stuttered back online in a disjointed flurry, thoughts of Fenris’s memories crowding out the languorous ease of moments before. His eyes opened, scanning until they landed on Fenris's back, perched lightly at the end of the bed. His leggings were back in place, like figurative armor. _Oh, Maker, what is wrong with me… I overstepped, I keep putting him in this position.._ He looked around and patted in the bedding for clothes, intent to give the warrior whatever space he needed.

But his guilt-spiral was summarily halted when Fenris turned at the sound of his rustling. He shifted around on the bed, which was when Anders noticed the two mugs in his hand. Fenris held one out silently to Anders, a mischievous glint in his eye. Anders took it, looked at it like it were an entirely foreign object, and then felt something soft land on his shoulder. A rag.

Fenris grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright you lovely people. I know it’s rough to wait around for a WIP. So, in the interest of full disclosure: the next chapter is fluff, followed by several chapters of rough, angsty plot before we get around to more regular salacious activities. Moreover, this is likely to be the last, uh, conventional smut scene. It’s been insinuated at several points now, but the boys are headed for kinkytown. Consensual, relatively mainstream, and relatively self-explanatory based on what has been covered thus far. I’m pretty reluctant to add tags (I mean, _spoiler_ ) but I can be persuaded. Also, I’m not sure if I can keep the smut so nicely divided from the plot in the future; if this is troublesome, please comment or email, and I’ll compile a separate pg-13 version without the explicit smut. 
> 
> Unfortunately, my HC for these boys (and Fenris in particular) involves a pretty high level of trust and intimacy before that’s possible, so we still have some shit to work out – especially since Anders is headed for an identity crisis. 
> 
> So, there ya have it. Smut will resume shortly, but we had to get some of the boring, er… ‘vanilla’ smut out of the way before turning up the heat. Or, depending on your perspective: this is a good time to duck out if the smut thus far is exactly what you want from a Fenders fic. 
> 
> PS: Asinine is by far my favorite/the best addition to any insult. I strongly encourage you test this theory for yourselves. Spur-galled mammet is via the Shakespearean Insult Generator.


	22. The Little Things

“It’s pointless to install new rafters if the ridgeboard has a huge hole in it – we need to replace that first.”

“So, you propose we tear out this entire roof to fix a six-foot hole?”

“Well, that’s probably the smartest plan long-term, but I was actually just suggesting we add a new section of ridgeboard, support it with a king post and struts.”

“You are making up words.”

“I’m not! I’ll have you know, I helped with at least four barn-raisings in my village as a boy. Carpentry is literally – literally, Fenris, not figuratively - the only way to maintain good neighbor relations in the Ferelden countryside.”

Fenris huffed, exasperated. “We do not have sufficient lumber for king struts and ridge posts. You are needlessly complicating this endeavor.”

“We have plenty of lumber for a _king post_ and _ridgeboard_ if we skip the hole in the third bedroom and just lock that room up.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Stubborn mule.”

“You try my patience.”

Anders laughed easily. “What patience?

Fenris blustered a moment, but couldn’t conceal a smirk. “Fool mage,” he muttered.

“Yeah, yeah.” He passed a saw to Fenris and pulled a post from their small timber pile, currently resting on a flat section of the roof after a truly gripping escapade of hoisting it up from the second story window. “Here, this needs to be the same height as the posts at either end.” He pulled out a measuring cord, then returned to carefully marking each beam to ensure they would meet evenly at the ridgeboard.

Anders paused, looking at the warrior contemplatively. “You know, there’s a different quality to your outrage when you’re mad at me and when you think you should be mad at me. Secretly, you like it that I’m not afraid of you anymore. I actually think that may be your favorite thing about me.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “That, and apparently the noises I make. Items one and two. I’m starting a list.”

Fenris bent into his periphery, grabbing the indicated post with a dramatic glower. Anders had catalogued many of the warrior’s glowers and eyerolls, and was becoming quite fluent. This one, a common variety, meant _you are not entirely wrong, but also fuck you_. Fenris confirmed the translation when he called over his shoulder a moment later, “As long as we exclude speech from ‘noises’.”

Anders smiled for no good reason. He had been experiencing an extremely strange cluster of symptoms the past few weeks. Though he still had intermittent episodes of anxiety and guilt-spiraling, the darkness that frequently filled his thoughts had been pulling back, like a mist burning off the coast in the sun’s rays.

And, even better, he and Fenris were arguing again. Not like before – nothing like before. But, for a while, their trust had been so fragile; each had tacitly avoided potential areas of contention. It was paradoxically liberating to be able to argue without fearing irreparable damage to their hard-won accord.

And with that liberation came a new kind of conversation. It had come about so naturally as to sneak up on him; without fully noticing the difference, suddenly they were talking about their experiences in other parts of Thedas – traveling wasn’t the right word, but fleeing was a little too simplistic for their wide and varied adventures.

They spoke of favorites; weather, food, places. They shared their lived experiences with other cultures and beliefs. Anders spoke of his time with Warden-Commander Tairen Surana and the Wardens and described some of his more daring escape attempts. Fenris spoke freely of the Fog Warriors, and the three-year journey from Seheron to Kirkwall. There were points of agreement (both liked coasts and lakefronts, and enjoyed the soft rain – though Fenris preferred warm, sunny weather), and issues of vehement contention (including a three-day argument on the relative merits of cats versus dogs).

And then, inevitably, frequently, blessedly, one would look at the other, with a growing smile or merely a devious glint to the eye, and they would be drawn together like lodestones. The idle conversation would morph inexorably into panting breaths and heated kisses.

They couldn’t keep their hands off each other; Anders could never remember a time when his thirst for another had been as constant, or as frequently slaked. It was as though they had reached an unspoken agreement that the relentless desire should always be indulged. As if pure carnal satisfaction was the most important goal either could fathom. As if every piece of furniture, every wall, every floor that they rutted against was complicitly aiding an act of liberation. After all, freedom was the one thing he and Fenris always had in common.

If Anders occasionally thought back to that single, incredible, vulnerable kiss, the kiss that had laid him bare to Fenris to the deepest extent possible for the briefest of moments… if he thought about it at all, he didn’t bring it up. Anders hadn’t taken so much physical delight in the company of another person in ages – perhaps ever – and wasn’t willing to risk the easy companionship for addled notions of something more. If he ever looked at the warrior with a swell of emotion that had nothing to do with friendship or lust, well, hearts were fickle little bastards.

“Your favorite thing about me is that I so rarely interrupt your constant prattling.”

“Ow!” Anders cried, melodramatically clutching at his chest. “I’m wounded by your spurious accusations.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he returned to measuring. “And you couldn’t be more wrong. My favorite thing about you is your voice; even when you use it to fling words as sharp as daggers to scramble my wits.”

“Better than flinging actual daggers,” Fenris replied, flushing faintly.

“Well, as long as you keep talking to me in that magnificent voice, I’ll count myself lucky to have my limbs and my wits intact. A man's gotta live by his wits, you know.”

“I suppose half a life is better than none.”

Anders couldn’t hold back a cackle at the venomless barb. “I quite like you, you know – it would be such a disappointment to have to murder you.”

Fenris turned to continue sawing, but he did a poor job of concealing the way his shoulders wracked with silent chuckles.

* * *

“Will it be visible?”

“Only when you ghost.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“It will work.”

“But what if –“

Anders interrupted the warrior with a hand on his forearm. “It will work. I’ve done my research – I even spoke to Sandal! And, remember, you have to take a little risk up front if I’m going to earn your trust in this.” Anders thought back to when he had said that last – _Maker,_ it felt like ages ago – and smiled fondly at how much things had changed.

He could look back now and chuckle at how confusingly heartbroken he had felt when it seemed the curse was somehow responsible for Fenris’s attraction. He hadn’t known how he felt, much less whether Fenris’s seemingly uncharacteristic behavior was volitional. Well. They had entirely squashed the notion of a compulsion. Many mages had fallen since then, either out on adventures with Hawke, or as a result of slavers invading the mansion, and Fenris had never once felt a compulsion towards them.

 _And thank Andraste’s crispy nips for that._ Anders couldn’t imagine where he’d be without the companionship of the brilliant, maddening, remarkable elf.

Thinking back to that time made it all the more striking and poignant when Fenris lifted a hand to lightly settle atop his where it still rested on the warrior’s forearm. Without hesitation, he captured Anders’ gaze. “I trust you.” 

Anders swallowed with some difficulty; he could practically see his memories of the reticent warrior by the window of his bedroom so many months ago overlayed on the current display of implicit faith. _How did I get so lucky,_ he mused – not sentimentally, of course - _for Fenris to place his trust in me?_

He gave the warrior’s arm a brief squeeze and flashed a grin before returning his hand to the table. Ever the healer, he began to explain the procedure.

“All right, so I’m going to do some _glowy stuff,_ ” he began teasingly, “and form a glyph here on your tunic.” He placed a finger right in the center of Fenris’s chest, then leaned forward, tapping the warrior’s left knee. “And a second one here, just in case you find yourself in battle without a shirt on. Or a breastplate. Or pauldrons.” At Fenris’s cocked eyebrow – _seriously?_ it said – he shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

He sat back, assessing Fenris’s expression for lingering doubts. “You’ll see a bright light, and there may or may not be a noise like a hiss – like when a tanner brands their signature on their work - but you shouldn’t feel anything on your markings aside from whatever you feel when I cast the modified elemental shield normally. But, please, let me know if you feel anything. I’ll stop. Okay? Any questions?”

Fenris looked down. He clearly had a question, but also clearly thought it was a silly one. Anders waited.

“Will it… hurt? The spirit. Will it feel like a brand?” The warrior’s gaze was fixed on the table, clearly loathe to express such a concern.

Anders smiled - a tender, sad excuse for a smile. “I don’t see how. Valor is gone… it’s just the leftover bits, just like regular leather in that sense.”

Fenris nodded, but apparently decided some explanation was necessary, lest Anders think he was going soft in the head. “It is not uncommon for slaves to be branded in some way. Danarius took it to new heights, but I am hardly the first to wear the mark of an owner. No sentient creature should have to feel that. The smell near the branding pens was…” He trailed off, and Anders felt his heart squeeze with a particular menacing, murderous intent that he reserved specifically for the Magisters that had so desecrated this wonderful man.

“I think Valor would find this a worthy cause, even if the spirit were still present,” Anders replied gently. “But it’s not. As far as I can tell, your armor has unique properties, but it is no more alive than this table is a tree.”

Fenris nodded again, this time looking up to meet his eye. “Very well. Begin.”

Anders gave a single, solemn nod, then bit his lip in concentration as he summoned the various elements of the spell, calling multiple schools of magic across the Veil and weaving them into a complex web.

It was no simple task; weaving multiple magics into a compounded spell such as this required long practice at something akin to partitions in a mage’s mind - like developing the skill to write different words with both hands. Most spells called only one school of magic, and two was extraordinary. But for this purpose, Anders couldn’t use etching agent and runestones – the spell had to be inscribed directly into the armor with a combination of fire and force, in addition to the actual arcane spell.

It took several moments of silent, glassy-eyed focus before all three forces submitted to the intricate weave, but when the recalcitrant spell finally coalesced, Anders lifted his hand to lightly rest his fingers on the tunic above Fenris’s sternum. The glyph bloomed at his touch, fully formed and accompanied by a brilliant blue light.

Fenris squinched his eyes and tilted his head up, away from the corona that hovered on his chest; when Anders looked up, the expression was indistinguishable from pain. Anders jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned – a strange reflex, some part of his mind realized - startling back so quickly the chair tipped over and skidded a few paces behind him. “Sorry! Sorry, Maker, Fenris, are you okay? Did that hurt?”

Fenris opened his eyes at the clatter, dropping his gaze to Anders with a look of confusion, shortly followed by wry amusement. “Jumpy. No, it did not hurt.”

Some instinct drove Anders to reach out, as if to confirm by tactile input that the warrior was still in once piece, but he reigned in the absurd impulse and stood with hands hovering just above Fenris’s shoulders. “You looked… hurt.”

Fenris's glance dropped down and to one side, then the other, deliberately cataloging his hovering hands as if to write a report on this incident later. “If this is your idea of a come-on, it is not going well.”

Anders slumped as the unanticipated coil of tension vanished from inside him; clearly, Fenris was fine. He reached back to right his chair, then perched on the very edge as he examined his handiwork. _Resorting to teasing, are we? Well._ He continued his inspection, musing aloud, “Hmmm. You’ll know when I’m trying to seduce you, don’t worry.”

“Yes, it was rather obvious at ‘seriously, fuck you, who looks like that.’”

Anders managed to not fumble his grip on Fenris’s tunic, but the rush of giddiness, fondness, and embarrassment did make his cheeks burn. “You know, you have quite the prodigious memory when you choose to use it. Alright, this looks good to me. Try ghosting, let’s see it in action.”

Fenris complied, flaring his brands as he sat stoically on the chair in their little kitchen. It was a rather odd experience; Anders had never gotten to see the phenomenon outside of battle, where his attention was short-lived at best.

It was… quite beautiful, actually.

“It works, I can feel the spell. It… feels like your magic.”

“It is my magic.”

“You are staring.”

“You’re b… you’re blue.”

Fenris let his brands fade, an enigmatic look on his face. Anders’ face burned with cheek-sized integumentary infernos. “Onward, shall we? The second one will be the same process.”

“It was memorable.”

Anders tilted his head, face scrunching as he tried to piece together the non-sequitur.

“Your… seduction. It does not require prodigious memory to recall every detail, every word.”

Anders dropped his gaze and once again set to work, mouth trying and failing to conceal a dopey grin.

* * *

“Sonorous!” Anders exclaimed.

Fenris jerked his head up, book falling from his fingers as his eyes darted about the room in alarm. “What? Where?”

“Where?” Anders frowned, puzzled. “What? No, Fenris… I said ‘sonorous’, not… whatever you thought I said.”

“You did not say ‘sonorous’, you shouted it. Unprovoked. After more than an hour of silent reading.”

“Oh… well, whatever. I’ve been trying to think of a word to describe your voice for ages now. The word finally just occurred to me.”

Fenris gave him the ‘you are lucky you happen to be pretty’ eyeroll. He reached down to retrieve his book, but by the time he relaxed and settled back into his bean sack nest, his cheeks were faintly flushed. “Sonorous?”

Anders beamed, quite pleased with the descriptor despite the awkward delivery, and simultaneously enamored with how that word sounded in the warrior’s velvet mouth. “Say it again.”

“Sonorous,” Fenris said, lengthening the vowels with no trace of mockery.

Anders felt a tingle up his spine, which led to a shiver that shook his entire upper body. “Mmmmm… yes. As if the word was designed to test for itself, and you passed. Brilliant, Fenris.”

* * *

“Five in the room on the left,” Fenris whispered over his shoulder. _How does he do that? How did he know there were five in the room, and that I was within whisper range?_ Sometimes Anders wondered if Fenris had some strange lyrium-enhanced eyeball properties that could see behind him and around corners.

“They were speaking – arguing - a moment ago, before you got here.” Fenris added in response to the unasked question. The warrior’s back was turned to him, but Anders assumed an ‘obviously’ eyeroll accompanied the statement.

He stepped over a corpse that seemed to have been regrettably posted outside the oft-ransacked dining room while those within strategized. Anders was late to the party, then.

He had been detained by the primary objective of finding and killing the requisite mage that still accompanied all these suicidal home invasion squads; it was getting disturbingly easy to stop thinking of them as fellow mages, given the seemingly endless arrogance that persuaded each they could succeed where so many had failed. Well, that, and truly lackluster spellweaving.

It would appear that someone had put a rather large bounty on Fenris, one that also seemed to come with promises of impaired spirit resistance – which was good, actually, because it meant the conveyor of said bounty had yet to learn of Fenris’s glyph.

Anders closed the final pace to stand behind Fenris. He turned his back against the wall (Fenris had given him a particularly aggressive lecture on the merits of keeping his back to walls) and gesticulated with his staff, summoning the weave for a friendly hello blizzard to welcome the slavers in the adjacent room. Frost was not his strongest element by a long shot, but it worked wonders for crowd control. 

Fenris stood poised at the entrance to the room, Lethendralis held at a relaxed ready position to catch anyone that made it out of the room, his eyes periodically flicking down the remainder of the hallway that had not been cleared.

Holding the gathered web of his spell, Anders took a step, but paused beside Fenris to lightly lean his head against the warrior’s shoulder for the briefest moment. Reinvigorated, he strode towards the open door and poked his head in the side room with a cheerful “Hello, slavers!” before releasing the coiled blizzard weave in the center of the room.

Things happened fast from there, as they tended to.

As it turned out, he and Fenris were a pretty dangerous team now that their constant bickering didn’t make them easy - well, distracted - targets. This was becoming more and more evident as the break-ins continued.

If anything, Anders performed better when it was just the two of them. He would deny it to the grave, but he was much more invested in each battle, and not just because of his recently attenuated hatred for slavers. The stakes were… more personal, when it was just Fenris on the line. He was more focused, more protective, even.

And, unfortunately, Fenris knew it. Accordingly, the warrior was chronically irritated by Anders’ fierce protective streak. After the third opponent fell from a carefully controlled, precisely aimed spear of electricity - when Fenris clearly did not require help - the warrior huffed loudly. “I am not one of the damsels in Varric’s serials, mage. I do not require rescuing.” His brands flared as he ghosted through a slaver, rematerializing several feet behind the poor sot to sink Lethendralis between his shoulder blades.

“Varric would sell a lot more copies with you as the heroine. Fenrissa, the prickliest damsel in all of Thedas.”

Fenris growled warningly. “You will lose body parts if you are picturing me in a gown.”

“Hmm,” Anders replied diplomatically.

“It is no laughing matter. I still have not wrested the story of what happened between you and Aveline from Donnic, and I consider the man a friend.” The last slaver fell to a lazy application of _Hold High Branch,_ but Fenris casually placed a boot on his trachea when it became apparent that the chest wound wasn’t going to silence the fatally wounded man quickly enough.

“I told you, that was just a little misunderstanding,” Anders grumbled, casting about for any signs of breathing. Fake deaths were not uncommon in hired mercenaries.

Fenris poked his head out in the hall, heading toward to the last large room on the first floor, the library, with Anders following close behind. “Yes. You told me. And I have heard not another word about ‘squatting in Hightown’ since you two misunderstood each other.”

“She told you to be discreet about _yourself._ If anyone was out of line, it wasn’t me. Oh, good, we’re under attack.”

This lot at least had the wits to approach them in groups, which might have been an effective strategy against Fenris; if enough of them managed to close him in at short range, where Lethendralis became unwieldy, they might at least stand a chance. But six or seven slavers made a truly exhilarating tessellation for his lightning weave, each bolt flicking from one to the next and back again in a stunningly beautiful - and miraculously sanctioned – bit of spellcrafting. Groups were the only rational choice to fight against Fenris, but they were Anders’ métier.

Unfortunately, they seemed to be getting smarter, or at least more desperate. Anders was occupied with the first group that approached from the library, but at least five more had managed to flank them – _did they sneak in upstairs, somehow? Damnit we need Izzy to get this place properly trapped –_ and were not planning to politely wait their turn, apparently.

Anders placed his back on the wall, eyes darting between the slavers he was currently electrocuting on his right and the magnificent menace calmly shifting into an open stance on his left; he absentmindedly began to knit a follow-up rain of hellfire, not too besotted to do his job, thank you very much, but it was hard to look away from the Lyrium Ghost in action.

Fenris didn’t wait for the second group to close the distance; he had far superior reach, and two of the attackers were just blindly running at him like they had been called in a game of Red Rover.

Fenris exploded into motion without a single tell that might have forewarned the attackers; he leapt, arcing his greatsword in a downswing that sliced the nearest dimwit from one shoulder to the opposite armpit. His feet were moving before the hackjob was finished, giving him time to step back, twist his torso, and pull his sword free before the second attacker could land a wild thrust. It seemed part of the same motion when his wrist spun, flicking Lethendralis in a wide circle behind and to his side. The sword gained momentum as it arced up and across, finally coming to rest with three inches of the second slaver’s throat separated from his head by the blade. Anders was surprised it wasn’t a full decapitation, to be honest, but Fenris tended to conserve energy. The already-dead man toppled to the side from the sheer force of impact.

Fenris gave another flick of his wrist that spun the blade back into a ready position – and he did it with a rather smug look, Anders thought before turning his focus back to the fireball he was supposed to be summoning.

The remaining three attackers of the flanking group were more cautious, feinting and parrying defensively, trying to gauge Fenris, or possibly wear him out - which, Anders could attest, was basically futile. They landed several slicing blows between them - thankfully no stabs - before Anders completed his fire weave and was able to summon a hasty barrier.

He called a sustained wave of rejuvenation to patch up the warrior’s flesh wounds before turning back to see if any of his group needed more attention. But no. The library group was… handled. _Fire is convenient. Much easier to sweep ash than to hide bodies._

When he turned back, the warrior was incorporeal, and three hearts rested gruesomely next to three respective bodies on the ground. It was incongruously orderly, which was unnerving and a little cute. “Ah yes, the fastest way to a man’s heart – through his ribcage,” Anders snorted. Gallows humor was one of their primary shared interests.

Fenris rematerialized with a chuckle, wiped his blade along the dirty tunic of a slaver, then frowned and pulled a proper rag from one of his belt pouches. When he had tended his blade satisfactorily, he scanned the area, frowning again as he took in the ashy remains of the library group. _What, too magey for you?_ Anders thought with a mental sigh, but he valiantly ignored the urge to pick that fight. 

Instead, he took a deep breath and leaned on the wall. “It stands to reason that another of Danarius’s cronies must be in Kirkwall, to rally this much interest in whatever bounty he has laid out – no, don’t make that face, Fenris, I know it’s obvious. I was actually asking what you think our next step should be. I suspect more competent visitors will be forthcoming if we just ignore the source of the bounty.”

Fenris gave a vague, dismissive hand gesture that may have meant ‘yes’ or ‘let them try’ or ‘I have had their heads placed on spikes in the chantry courtyard’.

Anders persisted as they double-checked the library for holdouts. “So, should we talk to Hawke? Or try to find the source of the bounty ourselves? Or just get Izzy in here as soon as possible and uh, hope for the best?”

Fenris huffed. “Yes.”

Anders gritted his teeth and took a steadying breath. His first instinct was to badger the elf for clarifying details, verbs, nouns, really anything. Well, no… his first instinct was to tell him to do something anatomically improbable with his sword. But Fenris usually had no qualms expressing his opinions on such matters, so there must be a reason for his ambiguity.

_He might not be certain whether to involve Hawke, but – no, that can’t be right. He has never shown any reticence to ask Hawke for help in the past, and a few words from her can get the right people looking. But then again, she’s not exactly subtle… maybe Fenris wants to keep this quiet so the bastards don’t go underground. Or maybe he just thinks all three are good options, and we just need to decide the order, or maybe we need to…_

_We._

“You don’t want me involved?” he asked softly.

Fenris shifted, then carded his hands through his snowy fringe. “It is not…” he began, then cut off with a frustrated noise.

At length, he looked at the ground and replied, voice soft and almost pleading, “I do not think you should be involved, no.” The warrior turned and headed back towards the main hall, paused, turned partway to Anders, then sighed and strode down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm playing with an idea for later chapters... this notion that a really close, loving Fenders could be flagrantly insulting to one another - affectionately, but in their own odd way. There is a little hint of that in this chapter, and I'm interested in some feedback. Let me know what y'all think and also, consider this an open call for insults and modifiers! Creative, dirty, Shakespearean, goofy, dark... I'm pretty open-minded and would very much appreciate it! Obviously credit will be given in the notes for any that are used (as well as to the primary source if they are quoted from elsewhere).


	23. Showdown

Anders clutched the missive in both hands as though the parchment were venomous and might strike at any moment. His vision blurred, the words slipping from his mind as soon as he read them. Over, again, and once more he scanned the scrawling hand-written note, but the words evaded comprehension.

_K confirms: M has sent to Val Royeaux requesting RoA. MU all but wiped out by informed, simultaneous strike two nights past. Leak undiscovered. -Felandaris_

* * *

Fenris’s voice swam through his shallow trickle of of awareness as he haltingly returned to consciousness. The words didn’t quite register, but he could recognize that voice at any degree of cognizance. _He sounds angry. Why is Fenris angry? That can’t be good._

His eyelids were reluctant to open, but when they finally cracked, Fenris’s face slowly came into focus. He wasn’t angry – those knitted brows, that particular frown – he was alarmed.

“Phwaa…” Anders said. He felt his face scrunch up in confusion. _That’s not words._ He tried again. “Wuh… what…”

Fenris got the gist, apparently. “I assumed you might tell me. I heard… noises, from downstairs. It sounded like a struggle. Raised voices, something heavy hitting the floor.”

“Hmmf. Hehveh,” Anders scowled, but the intended quip about his physique was lost to the strange thickness of his tongue. This was getting ridiculous. When had his speech gone rogue, and why did it refuse to cooperate now?

Fenris waved a hand impatiently. “Regardless. I came as quickly as I could. You were positioned thusly. Were you attacked?”

Anders did a quick assessment. His mental faculties seemed intact, if a little disorganized, and a brief, probing scan showed no wounds aside from a sore spot on his forehead where a prodigious bruise would soon be colorfully apparent. He seemed to be in a heap on the floor, partially under his desk, with the left side of his face mashed into a threadbare rug. Like a discarded moppet. Odd.

His scrutiny turned to Fenris, who was crouched on one knee, one hand braced above him on the desk, peering underneath at Anders. His eyes were rapidly shifting across Anders’ face, as if they had decided to rebelliously condone the fidgeting that the warrior refused to allow elsewhere.

“I… no? Donno. Don think so.” He frowned. Right. Enough of this. He focused intently on his tongue and mandible, speaking with drawn-out syllables but relatively clear enunciation. “I don really know. I wash just sitting. Oh. Note!” _There was a note! I was reading a note. And then, what..._ Maker, confusion was an infuriating mental state. That niggling feeling that he was just missing something, forgetting something, overlooking something… it was maddening.

Whatever the cause of his dysphasia, the look on Fenris’s face was too uncomfortable to bear. He gave a weak, strained smile and struggled to extricate himself from beneath the desk with a half-hearted, “Low blood shugar?”

Fenris helped him stand and hovered while he unsteadily lowered himself back to the chair; he felt about as graceful as a newborn deer on stilts. He was able to relax a notch when, within a few minutes, his speech returned to normal and his body began to feel familiar once again. The hypervigilance regarding his recalcitrant body eased quite a bit more when he was able to drink deeply from a waterskin without choking a few minutes after that.

Fenris watched him drink, face shuttered, then announced calmly, “Do not move. You require an apple.” At the undoubtedly odd look on his face, Fenris added, “For your ‘blood shugar’.”

Anders’ first instinct was to keep the warrior close, but he nodded – he needed to think, and the sight of the stoic elf was entirely too distracting. He barely managed to corral the runaway thoughts that had plagued him since the day before, when Fenris had shut him out of further investigation of the recent swell in bounty-hunters and ambitious slavers. It was truly an inconvenient time for a domestic dispute.

 _The note._ Anders looked around as soon as Fenris stepped out and quickly located the tiny roll of parchment curled up and resting beside the pedestal leg of the desk. He even managed to keep himself from tumbling out of the chair when he grabbed it, so clearly his coordination was improved.

He unfurled the small piece of parchment and scanned it quickly. Almost immediately, a roiling wave of dysphoria struck him like a plunging breaker. Fury heated his skin, while despair chilled his core. He distantly noted his hands shaking when the parchment slipped from his tremorous fingers.

Just as his vision began to swim, his Circle instincts took over. _Think._ He slowed his breathing with effort, and plucked a single thread to follow in the tangled web of inferences, focusing his thoughts on the core issue.

But it was unthinkable. The Mage Underground annihilated by an organized, premeditated strike. Maker knew how the Templars had managed to penetrate such a secretive operation – Anders himself didn’t know where to find any of the agents. Their communication was almost entirely via raven, though there were occasional runners with encrypted notes.

His eyes hovered on the signature. He didn’t know the true identity of the man behind the moniker, but given the rare herb codename, knew it had to be one of the original eleven founders of the Mage Underground in Kirkwall. Felandaris seemed to believe that Knight-Lieutenant Karras confirmed his worst fear, that Meredith had sent for the Right of Annulment. _Impossible…_

Everything inside him rebelled at the thought. He hadn’t been nearly as proactive as he should have been, but surely things had not gotten so dire without his knowledge. The last time he had suspected the worst was years ago, with Alrik’s Tranquil Solution - and he had been wrong about that. _Though, that didn’t stop me from losing control to Justice. If that was Justice._

His heart seized as the next thought occurred to him. _Vengeance? Was that blackout a result of losing control to Vengeance?_ It didn’t make sense, though, because he remained conscious whenever Justice asserted himself. _But Justice and I joined willingly. Abominations aren’t conscious._ He groaned, unable to force himself to carry forward with that logic.

 _THINK._ Okay. Before anything else, he needed some way to verify the voracity of the claims made by the note.

He grabbed his staff and steadied himself before descending the stairs, unsure of his destination. To his surprise, Hawke and Izzy were standing in the main hall, conferring softly with Fenris. As soon as the warrior saw him, he cut off mid-sentence and trotted to the foot of the stairs. Analytical, mossy-green eyes scanned him up and down with nervous energy, though the warrior’s face was visibly softened by relief. 

Apparently satisfied, Fenris gave a quick nod, then summarized, “There is a problem. In Hightown. A protest, or a riot – something. Hawke requests our presence, but I…” he faltered, clearly stumbling for the proper vocabulary, “I informed her you had fallen ill.”

“I’m alright. Let’s go see about a riot.” _And a rumor._

Fenris shifted hesitantly, and Anders found that the terror and despair he had felt moments before were moderately lessened by the warrior’s concern. He did his best to find a reassuring smile, nudging Fenris with a shoulder. “I’m fine.” He swallowed thickly. It was not lost on him that the warrior had thought to provide him an easy out with Hawke. “Thank you,” was all he could think to say.

* * *

“Justice shall be tempered by mercy,” Meredith intoned. The Knight-Commander’s voice rang in his ears like the sound of plate armor on stone. It echoed like the sneering japes and callous disregard repressed and isolated in a dark part of his mind. It hissed like a cold-blooded viper patiently waiting the opportune moment. _Mercy,_ he thought bitterly, _is a festering poison from Meredith’s malignant lips_. The delusional notion of justice meted out by the Knight-Commander was so far beyond farcical as to be grotesque.

The ‘riot’ was in fact just a smattering of faintly bored-looking nobles, along with several other folks that trickled in, noticing the crowd and gravitating closer. _Probably hoping for street performers,_ Anders thought bleakly.

He stood, frozen in place, listening with alternating disdain and despondency as the First Enchanter ineffectually argued for the mages under his care. Anders tried to view the crowd with impartiality; some of the nobles seemed sympathetic, but it was far too easy for Meredith to quell the legitimate complaints with fear-mongering accounts of blood mages and abominations. The nobles did not seem to appreciate the circular logic; a greater number of mages were turning to blood magic and demons under the draconian conditions, so, obviously, there was a greater need for draconian conditions.

At one point, he thought Orsino might be able to turn the tide with a plea most people could understand; the desire to not be discriminated against because of the actions of others. “You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so.” Several nobles seemed moved by that argument, but Meredith was nothing if not calculating. She gave the First Enchanter a slow, appraising look, and something akin to genuine regret painted her features. “I know, and it breaks my heart to do it.” It gave him a moment’s pause, unsure if this was the first sincere emotion he had seen from the Knight-Commander, or if she was even more duplicitous than he realized.

The woman turned slightly, raising her voice to the assembled crowd. “But we must be vigilant. If you can’t tell me another way, do not brand me a tyrant.”

Anders seethed. Had he not spent years developing alternative systems? Proposing various ‘other ways’, only to be dismissed out of hand for his ‘radical’ notions? It was all he could bear. A grim, hopeless fury washed over him, infused him with the determination of the damned. He felt himself step out of the crowd, closing the distance to the impotent First Enchanter and the rabid Knight-Commander.

“The Circle has failed us, Orsino, even you should be able to see that,” he hissed, voice low and menacing, his words intended for an audience of two. Dispassionately, he realized that Hawke, Izzy and Fenris had followed him, but it hardly mattered. “I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals, while those who would lead us bow to their Templar jailers.”

Anders spun, ignoring the outraged cries from both so-called leaders. His feet carried him the short distance to Fenris’s mansion, where he scrambled upstairs and gripped the tiny missive from Felandaris. His hand clenched, crushing the fragile parchment with a force that made his arm shake. Fire consumed the missive without a conscious weave, an incident that would have been deeply disturbing under different circumstances.

He bent over the desk, penning a reply with furious strokes of the pen. He turned to the well-trained raven, still perched patiently but enigmatically at the windowsill, and tucked the missive into its message capsule.

_Get out. Riv or And. Take whoever you can. -Amrita_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mini chapter, followed by a whopper. 
> 
> So, I'm not quite willing to call this an AU yet, but I am open to feedback. The wiki description of the Kirkwall Rebellion specifically indicates that the widespread violence was a response to Meredith invoking the Right of Annulment on the Gallows, which was supposedly precipitated by the chantry explosion. But, if you don't kill Knight-Lieutenant Karras in Act 1, he will disclose that the Right has been requested from the Divine at _any point_ in Act 3. So... the wheels were already in motion by the time things got explosive. 
> 
> Anyways, I mention that because this mini chapter (and this little plot arc) involves things that happen later in Act 3, and some of the dialogue both from Showdown and from The Last Straw.


	24. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. It took longer than I expected (sorry!) but this chapter was finally revised on 2/12.

The mage was gone.

Coat haphazardly tossed over the back of a chair. Books, pillow, and other possessions untouched. Satchel and several potions missing.

Fenris tore through the mansion with spartan efficiency. No bodies. No signs of forced entry or struggle. Ceiling intact, doors and windows bolted. Basement, wine cellar, root cellar undisturbed. No note or other indication of intent.

The absent satchel and potions were thus the only clues. The sparse evidence suggested the mage had left voluntarily and in haste; he would have returned for the coat if the departure was well-planned.

Fenris returned to the empty bedroom that no longer smelled of dust and decay. It now smelled like sweat and wine and linen and the mage _._ He took a deep _hu_ breath. Grounding. _The fool mage thinks of all deep breaths as ‘Idos breaths’,_ his traitorous mind whispered. The thought made his chest hurt. He took another.

The mage was gone.

Fenris closed his eyes. Time to think.

He could be at the clinic, but no, not after the gruesome ordeal with Karras. He would not wish to draw undue attention there. If he intended to move back to Darktown - or anywhere - permanently, he would have taken items of sentimental value.

_Unless he was under extreme duress and fleeing was the only option._

That thought was uncomfortable, though easily dismissed as unlikely.

The best conjecture Fenris could come up with was that he was either on a temporary mission - _something relating to Lieutenant Karras’s murder?_ \- or that he had a previously undisclosed bolthole. Or he was fleeing the city. _No. Not that. He would have said something._

He needed to check the clinic. And the Hanged Man. The mage might have spoken to Isabela, and Varric’s network might have valuable information. He glanced around the room again, his eyes lingering briefly on the faded, hand-embroidered pillow on the bed. He saw images of the mage holding it reverently, long, pale fingers placing it gingerly on the bed as if upon a dais.

~~~

_“What power does that pillow hold?”_

_“…huh?”_

_“The pillow. You keep it with you.” He didn’t voice the rest of the thought: that the mage sometimes held it like a Magister held the key to their treasury, or their most recently acquired or most powerful accessory. He held it like it was precious and guarded it like a starving man guarded their last ration. It must be a source of power._

_“Power…? Hah!” the mage’s tone was bitter, which was unexpected. Well, it was a ridiculous vessel – perhaps he was self-conscious. Or, possibly he was upset that Fenris had noticed his attachment to it. Well, the people here did display remarkable ignorance about such things; no one survived in Tevinter without knowing what was valuable to others. Slaves least of all._

_“The only power in this pillow is the remarkable ability to make a grown man weep like a petulant child. Well, that and extremely fine stitching.”_

_Fenris frowned. A trick? But why conceal power with a self-deprecating lie? Unless it was to hide something even more embarrassing. Or perhaps it was his own ignorance, some turn of phrase he didn’t recognize in the so-called Common Tongue. Or maybe it was a lie of omission – Fenris didn’t sense any ambient magic from the pillow, but perhaps it required a second item or ingredient to unleash its power._

_He had spent nearly an hour generating and discarding possible motivations, explanations, and power dynamics at play before he had finally returned to question the mage further. It couldn’t be so simple. Never, not once in his recalled memories, had he met a mage with an emotional attachment to a family heirloom. Family heirlooms were about power and prestige. Slaves kept tattered remnants of their former lives. Mages did not. Magisters, especially, did not._

~~~

The memory was old - from the earliest days of the mage’s stay at the mansion. Foolish to dredge it up now. Foolish to recall the numerous instances of idealism, tenderness, and kind-heartedness that the mage had displayed openly, shamelessly. Foolish, because sentimentality was not going to help him find the mage.

He spun and stormed towards the wine cellar, shattering several bottles of fine wine in his haste to prise open the door.

* * *

“ _Fasta vass_!” Fenris shouted uselessly at the fireplace. Three days. Three days of dead ends, fruitless inquiries, and utterly infuriating sympathetic looks.

The clinic had been busy when he stormed in, but his stiff posture and clenched jaw drew Lirene’s attention almost immediately. No, she had not seen ‘the healer’ in weeks, and neither had a surprisingly young-looking man with dark hair and a muscular build that introduced himself as Keshen. Fenris knew his narrow-eyed, intensely focused scowl unnerved the infuriatingly well-built ‘trainee’ but was too impatient to temper his sharp tone or rapid-fire questions.

No one knew a damned thing. The entire lot was useless. Moreover, the mage’s private rooms behind the clinic were untouched. The fine layer of dust that had accumulated was evenly distributed and undisturbed.

_Fenedhis._

The moment he entered the suite in the Hanged man, Varric did not let him get a word in before launching into a description of the locations that had been searched and the current efforts to extract information from the Gallows.

After the discovery of Karras’s gruesomely dismembered body, shortly after the confrontation between the mealy-mouthed Enchanter and the sadistic Commander, it was a reasonable supposition that the mage had been secretly carted off by vindictive Templars. Yet Varric had found no evidence supporting this, though he was careful to explain that it had not been ruled out entirely. The dwarf was calm and business-like as he enumerated the various leads he still had to pursue.

“He’ll show up. Blondie is a survivor, if nothing else. And you’ll be the first to know if any of my birdies hear so much as a whisper.”

Unsure what social norms dictated in terms of a response, Fenris nodded, turned, and descended the stairs.

He found Isabela looking rather worse for wear at the bar. The pirate captain looked at him, her face melting into an unguarded, soft expression before she stood and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Fenris stood rigidly, struggling to maintain his hard-earned, ironclad grip on his composure.

He extricated himself, not unkindly, and allowed the pirate captain to fuss over him. He liked Isabela. She had a familiar penchant for keeping information to herself, but was refreshingly and paradoxically blunt at the same time. One always knew where they stood with her, and she didn’t apologize for her shortcomings. She didn’t pry, and rarely took offense at his own bluntness.

She was also the only one of Hawke’s companions that had managed to befriend the mage, and as such, was the only other potential source of information he had. 

Which made it all the more disappointing that Isabela had no information to give, no leads he had not already followed. The only contribution she had offered was a renewed offer to tighten up their security, and a fierce vow that Anders would not have left voluntarily.

Over the next three days, Fenris had stooped to such degradations as speaking to the Dalish Keeper, subjecting himself to a frankly intrusive interrogation by Hawke, and, the true pinnacle of ignominy, a brief discussion with the witch. The latter had been both offensively blithe in her trite reassurances and maddeningly tangential, primarily focused on issues relating to demons and spirits - likely to assuage her own guilty conscience.

Now, he sat in a rickety chair, the very same one he had dragged in from the disheveled dining room three days ago and placed in front of the secret door leading to the Idos chamber. Here he had kept vigil, with clear line of sight to the main entrance and root cellar.

It was cold, here in the drafty, hearthless hall, but the heat radiating from the door behind him was sufficient to stave off chilblains. It was, perhaps, fitting. Or, at least familiar.

His tolerance for alcohol had diminished. It occurred to him as the second bottle of Agregio shattered against the wall to his right. Two bottles of wine had once induced a heady buzz.

~~~

_“What do you do around the mansion all day?”_

_“Dance, of course.”_

_He never grew tired of that expression on the mage’s face; whenever Fenris made a joke, he could easily identify not only the surprise, and the struggle to conceal said surprise, but also the flicker of tenderness each time the mage thought he was cleverly concealing something that might inadvertently offend Fenris._

_The man’s face was so expressive. At various times, he had thought it a ploy, and then a weakness, and then a mystery. Now, he was beginning to think it a wonder - to openly display what one was feeling with such reckless abandon. Now, he thought it might be brave, and definitely intriguing. It was just one more thing about the mage that was entirely novel in his experience with those who wielded magic._

_“You… wait, really?”_

_“I run from room to room, choreographing routines.”_

_“You’re joking.”_

_“I do that, on occasion.”_

_“Oy, seriously, Fenris… what do you do with your time? What do you do for fun?”_

_“I drink. And cook. Play Diamondback with Donnic and Varric. Train. Read. Why do you ask?”_

_“Curiosity? I don’t know... I just thought, I mean, if I’m going to be staying here for a while, I’d like to get to know you a little better. Don’t people usually talk about their hobbies and stuff?”_

_“I would not know.”_

_“Oh… right. Right. Well, then, I’m supposed to tell you that drinking isn’t great for your health – healer’s prerogative, and all - but you probably already know that, and you’re probably about to tell me that demons aren’t good for my health. So, actually, nevermind – let’s just stick with that other thing. Hobbies. We actually have a shared interest already, because I like to read too.”_

_Fenris rolled his eyes, but took care to keep the other, more dangerous emotions from his face. The man simply had no filter. Any given toddler possessed more guile – and that was not even speculation; the mage had lost a hand of Wicked Grace against three young children waiting for their mother to recuperate at the clinic._

_Fenris had initially assumed that the mage’s ineptitude at deception was actually proof of a truly ingenious degree of deception, since none would assume a powerful mage to be self-deprecating. Politicians rose and fell by their ability to manipulate how they were perceived, and the mage’s act was flawless. False humility and obsequiousness, those were to be expected, certainly, but never this odd concoction of honesty and self-consciousness. Yet, as time went by, the act remained flawless, and no one could sustain such a performance indefinitely. All the evidence pointed to, not a manipulative genius, but a very poor liar that was oblivious to his own power._

_It was all so much simpler when they argued with each other. He didn’t know what to make of a mage that argued against himself._

_Unsure of what else to say, Fenris picked the answer that would most quickly end the uncomfortable discussion. “The best light for reading is by the hearth.”_

_“Lead the way.”_

~~~

Now, as he stood to march a familiar, dreary circuit up to the mage’s room and back, his head felt heavy and his steps seemed effortful.

The room was exactly as he left it. No phantoms had invaded while he was on watch. No unseen presence had disturbed the tableau, so strikingly barren now. Fenris flared his brands; he told himself it was because the thought of invaders reminded him to replenish the elemental shield. The pleasantly warm, tingling feeling of the magic was incidental.

No. Fenris was not an infant; he was neither coward, nor liar, and he had never hid from uncomfortable truths. A pleasant warmth always accompanied the spell, and denying it was beneath him.

In the next heartbeat, he was furious.

He stormed over to the desk and heaved, upending the heavy wooden piece effortlessly. He tore at drawers, hurling them against the wall in a blind rage; the contents exploded across the room as the drawers shattered into dozens of small fragments, mere kindling, one after the other. He snatched the chair and whirled in a circle, battering it against the door frame with ruinous force. The chair, unsatisfyingly, broke into only a few large pieces; he grabbed the nearest splintered leg and righted the desk, then battered at the smooth surface until the center fell out. Still, he could not seem to stop; the momentum of his fury swept him away, bashing and shouting mindlessly until his throat was raw and his breathing was ragged.

And then, just as suddenly as the blind frenzy appeared, it abandoned him. With that sustaining energy sapped, Fenris slumped to the floor, spent and hollow.

Time passed. At some point his stomach growled. He growled back. Unwilling to immediately indulge the demands of his fractious body, he stood and assumed _Open Posture_.

The sequence was habitual, and that bolstered him. It promoted a state of disciplined focus – the byproduct of repeatedly pairing the routine with that mental state. It quieted his mind; the flowing moments evoked clear-headedness in the same way the smell of nutmeg evoked the image of vast farms in the mountains of Seheron.

Most importantly of all, the routine allowed him to stow away the messy fears and feelings that were not advantageous to him at this time. Anything that did not contribute to the present issue was relegated to a box he visualized in his mind as his body progressed through the Idos.

When he finished, he was able to _think_.

The mage would not have left voluntarily without telling someone. So, he was either removed involuntarily, or someone was concealing information. Despite the strong, visceral reactions obvious on the faces of those who saw Karras’s body, he did not believe any of Hawke’s companions would be capable of such nuanced deception as to evade his notice.

Which meant the most likely scenarios involved either Templars seeking retribution for the slaughter of their lieutenant, slavers hoping to weaken Fenris by removing the mage from the equation, or - based on the mage’s frequent nightmares - some unknown, shadowy enemy with unclear intentions. There was, of course, a fourth possibility, but it was not open to consideration. Not yet, not until all other avenues had been exhausted; if the mage were dead, or had succumbed to the demon, there were no paths forward.

He could offer nothing of value to the Templar investigation that Hawke and Varric were not already seeing to. He would not even know where to start if the mage’s fears about his dreams were credible.

He could do something about slavers.

* * *

Days had passed. A week, maybe. Perhaps more, less; the time held no meaning.

Fenris had raided every cavern, holding pen, and secret warehouse he could find. A righteous genocide of slave traders. He left countless bodies in his wake, oceans of trafficker blood, until, at last, he found the source of the bounty. A middle-aged, nondescript, utter fool of a slave, promised freedom in return for circulating a bounty sheet and handing over Danarius’s renumeration upon delivery of the Lyrium Ghost.

It was possible that a mere week earlier he might have been convinced to find a suitable penance in exchange for the man’s piteous life, but Fenris’s recently discovered heart had disappeared, and been replaced with despair and fury. The fool willingly abetted the system he himself was a part of. More to the point, he knew nothing of the mage’s location, and was consequently worth nothing.

So. A week, or thereabouts, and no indication that his efforts had amounted to anything worthwhile. He paced up to the mage’s room. Numb resignation.

The mage had kept his room orderly, and now the disarray caused by Fenris’s fit of ire seemed almost sacrilegious.

Well, it was something to do.

He methodically worked the room, tossing the splintered remains of the desk into the hearth and bundling the rest nearby when the fire had been stoked to its limit. He made a pile of the remaining items, though most was junk likely leftover from the mansion’s previous occupant: a handful of old pen nibs, trays of sealing wax, blank parchment, a weighty stone paperweight, a brass keyring with ornate keys that did not fit any of the doors, and a handful of coins – sovereigns, silvers, even some Imperial tesserae coins. Trinkets.

After clearing the mess, Fenris listlessly paced to the vacant third bedroom. The spare desk was smaller, a roll-top sporting copious shelves and drawers rather than the sturdy pedestal the mage had been using.

It was better than nothing. Awkwardly, and with increasing irritation, he shoved it through the doorway, down the hall, and slotted it into the space where its unfortunate predecessor had stood.

Should the mage return, he would want a desk.

~~~

_“Did you, ah, want something?”_

_Fenris slid out from behind the doorframe, abashed at being so careless as to be caught staring. It was disturbingly hypnotic, watching the mage write. Oh, he had seen countless scholars doting over their parchment, but they were invariably young and soft, or grey-haired, ill-tempered mages in their dotage. He had never before seen calloused hands grip a quill so delicately, or observed the way a muscled arm bunched and rippled with the fine motions of dipping a quill in ink, or the motions writing itself. It was slightly astonishing to see how many tiny muscles and tendons were involved in the act._

_“Yes,” he lied, “I was thinking we should incorporate a quarterstaff into your Idos routine sometime. The practice is intended, in part, as a way to teach young recruits the basics of fighting. It would be wise for you to build a repertoire of techniques you can use when your magic is depleted.” Well, it is not technically a lie. He had thought that, at some point._

_“Oh. I uh, yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. I mean, the Wardens ran basic drills with weighted bundles of canes, and drilled with pells. Sparred, sometimes. But that was mostly to build strength, and I wasn’t there long, and… well, it was a long time ago, now. I really appreciate the offer, actually. But, um,_ _did you mean... right now?”_

_“No,” Fenris cursed himself again for being careless. “We would have to obtain a staff. Whenever you see fit. I merely wished to gauge your interest.”_

_“Well, I’m definitely interested._

_Fenris looked away, unable to think clearly while pinned by that amber gaze. How much did he know? What question had he been answering? Fenedhis, I am such a fool._

_“I will obtain a staff, then. The timeframe is up to you.” Fenris took one stormy step down the hall, furious at himself, when the mage’s voice stopped him. “Thank you. Oh, and Fenris?”_

_He took a breath before stepping backwards, keeping his eyes down. “Yes?”_

_“That thing you made, with the string squash and vegetables and cheese. That was really good. Would you mind showing me how you made it? I think I’ve gotten spoiled by the presence of real food in my life…”_

_Fenris felt his lip twitch up at the corner. He still hadn’t decided if the mage did these things intentionally, but he frequently found ways to diffuse Fenris’s most awkward moments – usually by asking for a small favor. It was confusing, and it always worked._

_“I would not mind. Tonight?”_

_“If you’re free, and the supplies are available, and you’re sure you don’t mind…”_

_“Tonight is fine.” It would require a brief trip to the market, but that was unimportant._

_Fenris looked up for a brief moment. The mage was wreathed in midday sunlight, like he belonged to it. Eyes and skin and hair all in the hues of sun and fire, a creature comprised entirely of warmth. A trip to the market was a small price._

~~~

Fenris’s eyes closed to savor the image, but a thought followed quickly on the heels of the memory. _The mage used the desk - had primarily used it for writing. Where was the writing?_

He shuffled through the bundles of parchment, found it all blank. He scanned the room. His eyes landed on the pile of wood waiting to be remanded to the hearth.

Once he thought to look, it did not take long to locate the small, hidden drawer tucked alongside the ruined right pedestal. When intact, the tiny drawer would have blended seamlessly with the legs, but a corner had splintered during demolition, revealing a glimpse of the sheaf of papers within.

The first bundle was the mage’s manifesto. He nearly discarded it, but markings on the front page made him pause. The document was written in a confident and even hand, though cluttered by ample notes, additions and corrections throughout the margins. What drew his eye was at the top of the page, above the careful script - a scrawling, spidery defacement. The words were mostly illegible; ‘hopeless’ and ‘torturers’ were the only discernible morphemes among the scribble. The ink might have been the same, but the handwriting was utterly alien.

It was deeply unsettling and utterly nonsensical. Fenris flipped through the folio, finding no other instances of the erratic script, then returned to the front page. Perhaps there were clues in the manifesto as to what had elicited the graffiti. 

* * *

Some time later, Fenris sat, bent over the desk in the flickering firelight, his emotions once again threatening to break free of the cage in which he had carefully sealed them.

How could he not have realized?

After hearing the man rant about the plight of mages for so long, Fenris had become proficient at summarily ignoring the subject. But, apparently, the mage hadn’t needed the support of his friends in order to refine his reasoning. He had been testing and honing his arguments all along, even with an unwilling audience.

It was apparent to Fenris – at least in retrospect - that he and the rest of Hawke’s companions had utterly dismissed the manifesto as drivel without even a cursory attempt at comprehension. Fenris himself had disregarded it long before he was even capable of reading the much-maligned source material. Seeing the scope and depth of the writing - imagining the thought that went into it - induced a vague sense of nausea at his own disdain, a guilty conscience made manifest.

Fenris placed the dissertation in a side drawer of the new desk, and then stood pondering it for a long while. It did not make sense. Who had defaced it? Why?

It was, in essence, a hopeful document. It was written with the idea that things could change for the better. Clearly, the vandal disagreed.

The second bundle of papers contained a wide array of notes relating to Kirkwall’s history. It was clearly a curated collection, with many different contributing authors. Odd. But, then again, the mage was odd, and curious about many things.

Behind that were several loose papers containing notes and diagrams; it was all meaningless to Fenris’s eye, save for one hasty sketch he thought might be the glyph Anders had inscribed on his armor.

At the very bottom of the pile was a small envelope containing a piece of scrap leather and a long cord. Fenris dumped both into his palm, and immediately felt the familiar warm resonance, the unique hum of the mage’s strain of magic. Upon further scrutiny, he discovered the source in a symbol etched upon the leather scrap. _Why the cord?_

It struck him, then, that he had seen something similar about the mage’s neck when they had first met. It had disappeared at some point, and Fenris had never thought to ask. Why would he have asked, when the air between them had been entirely consumed by acerbic words? With a flash of irritation, he wondered why that thought induced misplaced guilt now, when there was nothing to be done for it.

~~~

_"The moment they are free, mages will make themselves magisters."_

_"I would rather die than help another Magister with their education!"_

_"Do you see yourself as harmless, then? An abomination who would never harm someone?"_

_"Just keep in mind, mage, there are witnesses."_

~~~

Thinking back on the long years of mutual animosity was a mistake. Useless regrets. No useful leads. His energy was sapped. Days of bloodshed, days without sleep, days of lingering doubt and fruitless efforts and increasingly unruly emotions…

Fenris leaned against a wall and slid to the ground, elbows on his knees, and examined the small symbol on the leather scrap. He didn’t rouse until his legs grew stiff and the wall leeched all heat from his back.

But the scrap was warm, and grounding, and familiar. _Stupid, trite, sentimental,_ he thought bitterly, but still, the leather was bafflingly comforting, an unexpected handhold on the edge of the abyss. An idea occurred to him, and he glanced up until his eyes landed on the tattered coat, still flung haphazardly across the back of a chair.

Perhaps he could prove, if only to himself, that he had not given up.

* * *

Fenris grabbed a coin purse, one of many that were strewn haphazardly about the master suite. He had lived the years since his escape without coin, relying on day labor, hard-earned survival skills, and occasional thievery to survive. The relative abundance of coin since he started working with Hawke was a novelty, but one he refused to grow accustomed to. Coin was easily taken. He spent freely on food, gambled with it recklessly at Wicked Grace nights, and otherwise thought very little of it.

Now, he wanted to purchase something: a little slice of normalcy, a shred of hope, no matter how delusional.

His first stop was at Hubert’s, where, after a brief description of the commission and a nonchalant up-front payment, he was hastily escorted to a nondescript doorway in Lowtown by a nervous young man with roughly calloused hands. He watched with hawklike intensity as the youth sorted through a handful of raw materials, finally returning with small rings of silver and a dense ebony wood. Fenris pointed at the wood. The mage reminded him of an eldritch jungle; wild and natural and unexpectedly orderly in its chaos.

He watched avidly as the scrap was stretched and centered across the small wooden frame, then stretched and smoothed under an outer ring that was then secured snugly around the first with a few taps from a felt-covered mallet. After some fussing and trimming, the leather scrap emerged as a pendant - glyph on one side, plain leather on the other - surrounded by gleaming ebony wood. The nervous but capable craftsman then screwed two small eye posts on either side, looped the leather cord through, and tied it with two sliding knots, one on either side of the pendant.

The craftsman nervously offered it to him for inspection. Fenris held the pendant for a long time before slipping it over his head, tucking it beneath his tunic, and tightening the cord. He gave the young man a quick nod, flicking an additional gold coin towards the nervous fellow as he marched out. Many of his lingering doubts had vanished once the pendant settled, warm and soothing, atop his sternum.

His second errand brought him to the robe merchant. Jean Luc eyed him with a combination of distain and fear as he unfurled the mage’s tattered robes from his pack. “I seek a replacement. This, same measurements, same style.” He gave it a brief thought, and, on a whim, added, “In black.” Black was stealthier. And the mage wore it well.

“The overcoat and, ah, feathers as well, messere?” 

Fenris nodded.

“It will take some time to reproduce such a garment, you understand…”

“How long?”

“Ahh, a week, messere, at the very least. I have three commissions ahead of yours I am afraid.”

The man’s prevarications were silenced by the weighty _thunk_ of a hefty purse landing on his display table. The tailor gave him an appraising look, no doubt questioning the origin of his apparent wealth, but Fenris could see the sidelong glance at the coin purse, could identify the moment greed won out.

“Ah, yes, as you say, messere. Mountains shall be moved in this endeavor, but satisfaction and, well, discretion are the primary tenets of my business.” This was said with a knowing smile as the tailor spirited the purse into a hidden pocket. Fenris was not sure what the artisan was implying, but he assumed it had to do with the fact the robe was clearly not for him, and was also clearly cut for a man.

He only made it a few paces before the sound of soft leather boots scurrying up behind him caused him to halt. “Ah, messere, forgive me – do you wish to keep the, em, personal effects?”

Fenris turned, brows furrowed in confusion until he saw the item Jean Luc held out to him. It was a familiar-looking wooden flute – hadn’t he seen the mage steal that from the Alienage? It seemed like years ago, now. The instrument must have been forgotten, tucked away within the robe’s pockets. Odd, to steal such a paltry item and then promptly forget it.

* * *

_Why is it so dark? And hot? Maker, where am I?_

Anders took stock. He was sitting, slouched over some sort of desk, though the lighting was so meager as to prevent much observation beyond that. He was in a room with no windows, a single brazier a few feet to his left the only light source.

His face felt numb on one side – he must have fallen asleep with his face mashed on the wooden surface. How long ago? _Maker._ What time was it? How long had he been asleep? And how did he get here?

* * *

Fenris spun the flute idly between his fingers, trying his best not to contemplate the lunacy that had spurred him to market. Well. The leather symbol was a warm, soothing weight on his chest, and that alone was enough to justify the expense.

Before him lay a stack of papers, furled notes that he had discovered hidden inside the flute. It was an eclectic array; there were two archaic-looking vellum sheets, one titled “Spirts and Demons”, and a second titled, “Walking the Fade”. The text was difficult to read - cryptic and infuriatingly stylized. Another collection, these on leather parchment, seemed to document some anthropological study of an isolated offshoot of the human Alamarri tribe.

Alongside these were a collection of hastily-scrawled notes, each titled, simply, “The Engima of Kirkwall”. All told, it was a baffling collection. Despite concerted effort and increasing frustration, he could not find the common thread among them, nor could he deduce the rationale for a city elf to maintain such a collection, and keep it hidden – much less any reason for the mage to pilfer it.

Frustrated, yet curious, he settled in to read through the more legible texts, but a sharp knock at the main door diverted him. For the briefest moment, his foolish hopes surged – but no, of course the mage would not come knocking at the front door. He stormed down the steps, full of self-recrimination, and heaved the door open with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Oh, Fenris,” Isabela cooed. He stood rigidly as she dropped two bundles on the ground, took a long stride, and enveloped him in a crushing hug. She held him for only a brief moment before stepping back with her hands on his shoulders. “You look like shit.”

Despite himself, Fenris felt his scowl slipping. Isabela had a way with words.

“You do not,” he replied, unsure what else to say. She was probably right, anyways.

Before he could grow frustrated with his maladroit skills at small talk, Isabela bent to pick up the two sacks she had unceremoniously deposited moments before, one of which made an odd sloshing noise. “I brought food, and it looks like you need it, you git. Come on.” In a flurry of movement, the pirate escorted him to the kitchen where she wasted no time in serving up a heaping bowl of soup – chicken, vegetables and rice – still warm in its ceramic pot, alongside a fresh loaf of bread.

With a conspiratorial grin, she also pulled a small, dark green bottle of rum from her satchel. “All right, you: eat first, talk later. I’ll just keep babbling nonsense and gossip until you clear your plate, so you may wish to keep the protestations to a minimum.”

Fenris might have protested anyways – _I do not need your pity meal -_ but the pirate was true to her word and launched into a diatribe of frivolity, not even pausing the outpouring while she chewed mouthfuls of bread. And, anyways, food was probably a good idea; he was unsure when his last meal had occurred. Before he knew it, he had eaten everything in front of him. _As ravenous as the mage,_ he thought glumly.

~~~

_“Maker, Fenris, this is your best creation yet. Pass the butter?”_

_Fenris suppressed the grin that always tried to creep out at the mage’s frequent and lavish praise. “I could, but I am concerned I might lose a finger in the process.” He nudged the crock of butter a few inches closer on the table, then dramatically yanked his hand back._

_The mage’s face enacted a poor impersonation of a scowl. “Hey, you can’t make food this good and expect… what, restraint? Manners?”_

_“You eat plain oatmeal with the ferocity of a she-wolf in spring. So, no, manners would be quite unexpected.”_

_His only response was laughter, and an inelegant stretch for the butter. The man must have a hundred different kinds of laughter. This one was a frequent response to teasing; it was one of the warm and carefree variety. It was unusual, in Fenris’s experience, for someone to laugh at themselves so freely, and it made him want to tease the mage all the more._

_“Well, I could blame the Grey Wardens, but this is really just very good. What exactly did Izzy call those things?”_

_“Bananas. Apparently, she has a ‘contact’ in Rivain. What do the Grey Wardens have to do with your penchant for fourth helpings?”_

_“The Joining ritual, to become a Grey Warden? Well, a common side effect is ravenous hunger. I was joking, for the most part. That largely faded with time. I guess I just forgot that food could be so good. But, seriously, what made you look at those things and think ‘bread’?”_

_Fenris frowned. The mage had, in previous conversation, shown obvious signs of discomfort about the ritual, as well as his asceticism while living at the clinic. In fact, there was only one topic that made the man appear more uncomfortable, and that was something he would not discuss at all. Now he had mentioned both in the same breath, and Fenris still felt awkward making inquiries. It seemed… intrusive._

_“I cannot take credit. The kitchen staff made something similar every time a shipment of bananas was intercepted from Par Vollen.” He paused, feeling as though he were inching out over a frozen lake with the ice creaking and popping beneath his feet as he added, “You rarely speak of the ritual.”_

_Ah, there it was; that look, the understanding - the mage almost always heard the unspoken questions. “Well, I’m not really allowed to… pretty sure the Warden-Commander would burst in the room and put you through the Joining herself if I tried to explain it. But I can tell you that not much changed afterwards. Aside from the hunger, and the nightmares - which faded with time. And a sense of wrongness - which didn’t.”_

_The mage sighed and looked down at his plate. His eyes were unfocused, pools of dark honey in the evening light, that seemed to stare through his bread and focus on a point a mile beneath the ground. “I try not to think about it… honestly, thinking makes it much worse. Like, imagine if you knew you had a tumor, a malignancy, that would kill you some day. It’s just… inside you. You want to reach in a pull it out – it’s your body! – but the wrongness is permanent.”_

_He paused, fiddling with the cuff of his tunic for a moment, and Fenris thought he was going to change the subject. After a moment, however, he grew still. “You know, I had a dream once. I dreamed I was lying in bed, and I could feel my heart beating. It was hammering in my chest, and then, all of a sudden, it kinda fluttered, and then just… stopped. I panicked, at first… tried to take deep breaths… like I could force oxygen into my body by breathing. Which is ridiculous, obviously, but I had this overwhelming feeling that I should be able to do something about it. And then I woke up.”_

_“That is profoundly disturbing.”_

_“Yeah. But, it was good, in a way. It made me realize something - I only control a small part of this body that I think of as mine. One day my heart really will stop, and just like in the dream, there’s nothing I can do about it. The Taint is like that. It’s an enemy inside the gates – this dangerous thing that you know is there but can’t do anything about.”_

_Fenris had been absorbed by the tale, imagining his heart stopping, imaging a foreign presence inside his body. It was horrific. He felt a shiver travel up his spine, causing his shoulders to hunch and his gut to twist. The thought of such a thing occurring to the mage… all his instincts told him to pull away, to protect himself. But Fenris was not a coward._

_He cut another slice of bread and leaned forward to place it on the mage’s plate. “I had not realized.”_

_“How could you? I should probably apologize – it’s not really a fun thing to talk about, much less hear about. No need for you to follow me into the dark places. One of us has to stay sane, right?”_

_Fenris didn’t know how to put his response in words. It was a vague jumble of loosely related concepts that made sense to him without words, but slipped away when he tried to explain it. Fighting alongside the mage, working and training; resting with the mage, routines and projects; laughing with the mage, talking and sharing. And this. The unpleasant things. There was room for this too._

_“I enjoy following you.”_

~~~

“…and so he did! I just want it known I never asked for the goat. And the fire was accidental,” Isabela babbled cheerfully as he finished his last bite. Fenris got the sense he should have been paying attention for that one. He also got the sense that the pirate was fully aware he had tuned out a while ago.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused. Isabela gave him a wink that ruined the otherwise innocent grin.

Thankfully, she soon resumed her assertive demeanor; the rogue had a preternatural and uncanny talent for manipulating the overall awkwardness of their conversations, he decided. “Alright my sweet and sour dumpling, shall we get down to business? I brought supplies. It won’t take long to shore up your security tighter than a virgin with a stick up their ass. And now that you’re looking a little less corpse-like, perhaps you can even bring yourself to communicate in sentences,” she added, dryly affectionate. Fenris ignored the well-intentioned invitation; he was not fond of verbal outpouring as a method of catharsis.

He followed the pirate captain into the back room, watching intently as she set up a grid of vicious-looking claw traps. “Now, these will hurt like a sonofabitch, so you’ll hear the yellin’ long before anyone can think their way through to escape plans. Just make sure you don’t go sleepwalking through this hallway late at night.”

Fenris nodded. _Does the mage sleepwalk? I will have to find out._

She sauntered to the main hall, and Fenris felt no small measure of relief when she glanced at, but refrained from commenting on, the single chair and shards of broken bottle. Just to the left of the front entrance, Isabela made quick work of setting up some sort of gas trap attached to the door handle.

“Now this one, well, I figured you’re more likely to have mishaps – so this is just a sleeping gas cloud. You want to keep this cord tight – the stopper is in there good and tight, so don’t worry about being rough with her. But you do want to make sure the door can’t open far without popping her cherry,” she grinned, then demonstrated by opening the door an inch or two.

The cork obligingly popped out. Fenris immediately spun, snagged the pirate by the arm and dove towards the kitchen. He tucked and landed with a graceful roll, but Isabela landed roughly on her back; unsure of the gas cloud’s range, he whipped a spare rag from his satchel, covered his mouth and nose, and went back to drag the rogue into the kitchen - only to find her wracking with silent laughter. “Oh, Fenris, you are secretly one of the good ones, aren’t you? Come now, you didn’t really think I’d spring my own trap. I’m a damned professional.”

Fenris frowned, looking at the – apparently empty – bottle next to the door. “You… are a menace, Isabela.”

Isabela sprang to her feet and placed a hand on a cocked hip, shaking her head. “And you are no fun. Can’t blame a girl from trying to distract you.” She spoke with a flirtatious air, but couldn’t hide the genuine concern in her eyes. He should feel guilty, he knew – she was trying to help – but his sense of humor seemed irrevocably lost. The rogue doubled down. “Seems a shame to let instincts like that sit around idle.”

After swapping out the empty bottle for the actual sleeping gas, Isabela fell back into her surprisingly soothing monologue of chatter. He followed her around as she trapped all the full-sized windows and set up a particularly nasty shrapnel trap just inside the third bedroom; the hole in the roof made it a likely candidate for invasion. After he rearranged some of the heavy wine racks, the tunnel door in the wine cellar got the sleeping gas treatment, along with strings of bells that would sound an alarm if anyone tried to run through the cloud.

“Now, if it were me, I would tie some brightly-colored fabric to each of these as a reminder that you need to disarm them before barreling through. It’s easy to forget when you’re in a hurry.” Ever prepared, she pulled a scarlet handkerchief from her bodice and tossed it at Fenris. “Anywhere else?”

He paused, then led the way back upstairs to the hidden latch at the center of the twin staircases in the main hall. “I do not know, for certain, but you are probably the person to ask. There is a secret door here – is there any way to determine if there are others like it? I… stumbled on this one by accident.”

Isabela was immediately entranced by the hidden mechanism, enough so not to question him on how exactly he had ‘stumbled upon’ it, and instead bent to examining the latch with fierce intensity. “Oh… this is good. Dwarven, maybe? I’ll take a look around for more, but only if you show me where this goes. Is it a secret sex dungeon? Ohhhh I hope it’s a secret sex dungeon.”

Fenris shook his head, certain the annoyance and affection were equally visible on his face. “It is not a sex dungeon. My apologies.” He paused for her melodramatic sigh, then retreated to the kitchen for a bolstering swig of rum while the pirate busied herself running her hands over nearly every surface of the mansion within reach.

Fenris followed her prudent advice, tearing the handkerchief into strips. He secured one to each of the triggering mechanisms on the three easily accessible traps, the door handle in the kitchen that led to the service entrance, and then to the external doors. The cloth looked ridiculous against the marble exterior, but practicality won out. At each trap, he practiced disarming and re-arming the mechanism until he was satisfied he could accomplish the task when tired, distracted or hurried.

When he returned inside, Isabela was in the kitchen, looking forlornly at the various jars of tea leaves. She rallied when Fenris approached, but her abrupt change in posture and cheery smile were hardly subtle. He stood next to the rogue, staring at the assortment of tea leaves, and reached up to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

Isabela sighed. “No word from Hawke? Varric? I just can’t believe…” she trailed off, then turned to face him. “He would have said something. To me and you. He wouldn’t just…” Fenris felt his eyes drop to the floor, a deeply-ingrained habit to defend against close scrutiny. For Isabela’s sake, he tried to keep the misery off his face as he muttered, “I thought so too. Yet it has been a week.”

The pirate gave him a look he couldn’t interpret, then placed her hands on either side of his face. “No. No, come on - don’t do that shit. Don’t throw out everything you know just because something doesn’t make sense. ‘That’s just poor logic’ – you know that is exactly what Anders would say. We’re just missing something – it doesn’t mean we’ve been wrong about everything.” She took a step back and stared a moment, waiting for an argument that never came, before her expression softened. “I didn’t find any other secret doors, but I should _definitely_ check your sex dungeon before I can confidently declare your mansion safe.”

~~~

_“Not that I’m complaining, but it seems like I tend to get more, ah, attention than you. Again: not complaining. You’re… very good at this. I’m just saying, I’d enjoy it. You know, I’m something of a giver, by nature…”_

_Fenris wondered how long he should let the mage continue with his circumlocution before cutting him off. He knew, almost immediately, what the man was hinting at; he had expected this conversation much earlier, truth be told. And yet, despite having had time to think through an answer, he had not come up with a satisfactory one._

_Now, as they both rested against the dusty table in the neglected parlor, the same table that the mage had been bent over moments before, no miraculous answer to the question came to him._

_There was a time, a relatively recent time, when the thought of desiring a mage would have been inconceivable. That he was consumed by such desires, now… it was something he could not quite rationalize. He had been able to admit, at least to himself, that he felt something for the man. He had also been able to admit, demonstrably, that he was insatiably attracted to the mage._

_The problem arose when he tried to combine the two. Attraction was physical, and thus excusable. Affection was something he had not anticipated, but it developed slowly, through shared tribulation and camaraderie. That in itself was not the problem; the issue was the two concepts together. Together, they were dangerous. Directed toward a mage, especially, but really… toward anyone. If he did not keep the two separate in his mind, he had no experience, no training with which to manage the all-consuming, possessive, desperate, furious_ need.

_Fenris was not a coward, but even he shied away from that train of thought. Which was why he had no answer to give. Honesty was not possible, in this instance. ‘I need to be in control to keep this separate from the rest of you’ was one of those things he couldn’t say. He had roleplayed it out with every variant, every combination of words he could think of, and it always ruined something._

_“I enjoy this,” he said. He had to say something, and that was true._

_“Oh, me too. And I don’t want to… I don’t know, pressure you, or anything. I just wanted you to know that I would enjoy some time to… explore.”_

_Fenris nearly cringed; that had been his own foolish word, a word spoken before he knew the full impact the man would have on him. How much did the mage know?_

_~~~_

“I…” Isabela trailed off. She whirled on Fenris. “I am disappointed in you! What the hell kind of sex dungeon is this, anyhow??”

“I told you, it is not –“

“Boooorrrriiiing,” Isabela huffed.

Fenris rolled his eyes, breathing in the warm, humid air as Isabela went about groping and tapping at walls. She hadn’t made it a third of the way down the right wall when the soft tapping noises dropped in pitch. The rogue froze, then rifled through a belt pouch until she retrieved a small stick of chalk. She made a small mark, one that rather suspiciously lined up with the side of one of the large marble arches, then tapped her way along, marking the other side. She worked her way around the room, pausing to mark the archway directly across the room from the first, then motioned for Fenris to come look.

“I’m pretty sure both those arches are doors, and there is something here - look.” She pulled out a dagger and slid it along the top of the hearth along the western wall. Both hearths, Fenris noted, were immediately adjacent to the suspicious sections of marble façade. He probably should have wondered at the symmetry – the presence of two hearths on opposite sides of a relatively small, underground room was rather odd. Did they even have flues? Were they functional, or merely subterfuge?

The dagger made a small snick as it caught on something in the center of the hearth; Isabela made a gleeful, giggling noise, and ducked her head down to feel along the underside of the mantlepiece. At length, she broke into a broad grin and snagged Fenris’s hand, pulling it underneath the mantle and pressing his fingers against the rough brick of the hearth. He felt around, head turned to hide his discomfiture at Isabela’s scrutiny, until the pad of his finger felt an indentation, a slight difference in surface height. He followed the seam, tracing the shape of a single square brick that was recessed slightly deeper than those around it.

“I am going to push this – it may be advisable to step back a ways,” he murmured to Isabela, noticing only afterwards that she had already retreated a few paces. _I am too accustomed to the mage’s lack of self-preservation instinct,_ he realized sadly.

He tucked his head, covered his eyes, and pushed.

A soft grinding noise followed, but nothing else. He waited a few heartbeats, then carefully opened his eyes. Pushing on the brick had done nothing more elaborate than lifting it up a few inches above the mantle.

“Well, that was rather anti-climactic,” Isabela said with a frown. Fenris agreed, but with rather more relief. He leaned in, inspecting the brick; it had an odd indentation in the center, a hollow sphere carved out of it. Isabela leaned over his shoulder, examining it as well. “There’s something written there, in the center – can you make it out with those fabulous elfy peepers?”

Fenris rolled said peepers, then shook his head. “It is not in Common… actually, they look more like runes or magical glyphs than writing, per se.”

He could feel the weight of Isabela’s wide-eyed, swoony stare. “Awwwww-“

“I have lived with a mage for months now.”

“wwwwwwwwww-”

“Isabela.”

The pirate trailed off with a harumph. “Fine. You have to admit, it’s rather cute. I’d never thought I’d see a day where ‘I-Hate-Mages Fenris’ would admit to knowing the first thing about magical glyphs.” She gave him a small, conspiratorial small. “I can’t wait to tell Anders.”

Fenris sighed. Recognizing the thoughtful intent behind the words, he decided against quarreling. He wanted her to be right, after all. “It hardly matters what the symbols are – it would appear a mage is required for this mechanism.”

“Well, not necessarily. I mean, I could bring Kitten over and let her take a look, but I don’t think we’re out of options yet. Did Anders leave his staff behind, by chance? Maybe it just needs a good poking with a big, hard mage staff.”

“Isabela,” he scolded absently. “No, he did not. Although…” Fenris trailed off. He took the stairs two at a time, then descended into the wine cellar. When he returned to the Idos room, he was carrying an armful of canvas sacks. “Another mage did,” he finished, as if the previous half of that sentence hadn’t been left dangling in the air for minutes.

With increasing impatience, he unwrapped myriad layers of canvas until, at last, the dark ebony staff emerged from the pile.

~~~

_“I don’t know what else to do with it, Fenris. It’s dangerous, and it feels… wrong, somehow. I don’t know. Just… don’t move it, or sell it, or touch it.”_

_~~~_

The mage’s words after hiding Tershiron’s staff came back to him, and cruelly brought along a vivid image of the particular crease at the corners of soft amber eyes - the one that the mage got when he was trying to smile reassuringly but his brows were weighed down with worry.

He left the canvas bundled tightly around the bottom of the staff, unwilling to touch it directly, and held it up to the protruding brick in the hearth. Nothing happened. He touched the indentation lightly with the tip of the staff, with similar null results.

“Oh, hey – the little ball at the tip. That looks like it would fit perfectly in the hole.” When Fenris frowned, Isabela smirked, “Honestly, that one was totally an accident. It just happens sometimes.”

Fenris flicked his gaze between the black sphere cradled between two serpent heads and up at the recession in the brick. It did look to be the appropriate size. Still, he hesitated. “The mage believed the staff felt ‘wrong’ somehow. I am not sure it is wise to meddle with it.”

Isabela huffed. “Anders can be a twit sometimes. Give it here.” She snatched the staff – only touching the end covered in canvas, he noted with some relief – and pulled a dagger from her boot. She hiked the canvas up near the top, and with newfound leverage, slotted the blade up underneath one of the serpent’s jaws. Neither were prepared when the orb to pop free without protest, and both watched with varying degrees of horror as the small crystal arced a neat parabola through the air and landed on the ground with a solid _thunk._

Fenris felt a familiar, crawling sensation on his skin, the bone-deep revulsion of unknown, malevolent magic, when the orb landed on the tile. It did none of the things natural order might dictate: it didn’t crack or shatter, and more disturbingly, it didn’t roll, didn’t so much as quiver. It landed on the smooth tile and just… stopped. All motion suspended, like a lodestone anchoring to metal, or a hefty bag of flour settling inertly wherever it landed.

Isabela broke the tension with a nervous laugh. “Well, that has to be one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen.” The pirate’s eyes darted uncertainly between the unnatural orb and Fenris, her bravado temporarily on hold.

Fenris took stock. All signs indicated that there were hidden entrances in the Idos room, and that this orb could function as a key to access said passages. The orb had properties that neither he nor Isabela were capable of understanding, but that did not mean they could not be harmed by it. Fenris knew all too well how much suffering magic could inflict regardless of ignorance or intent.

On the other hand, this was the first novel information that had surfaced since the mage went missing. If there was even the slightest chance that the orb was a key, that the archways were doors, then there was a chance that valuable clues might exist somewhere beyond those doors.

And, on the gripping hand, the mage was gone.

The most unexpected aspect, Fenris realized, was how easy the decision was. Any choice that involved facing his greatest fear – his longest and most justified fear – should involve a great degree of reticence, he thought. And yet, it did not.

* * *

Anders awoke lying on the stone floor. He wasn’t hungry, this time, and was terrified at what implications might follow from that observation. He didn’t move. It was entirely fanciful and ridiculous, like a child afraid of monsters under the bed, but he had an unshakeable notion that if he didn’t move, didn’t draw attention to himself, he would be left alone. So, he remained still and thought instead.

How long had he been down here? Days? Years? It was impossible to tell, with all the blank spaces in his memory - not to mention the blankness of his intact memories. All he could recall were short bursts of awareness, always trapped in a dark, stone room with that single flickering brazier.

He thought of Fenris. And Izzy, Hawke, Lirene, Keshen, Varric, Merrill, Aveline – of course. But mostly, he thought of Fenris, and he remained still, feeling the black waves of anger and despair cresting and breaking just below the solid, immutable surface.

* * *

Fenris had too much time to think on the descent down the stone staircase revealed by the secret door of the Idos room. The two opposing doors had lowered into the floor, quickly and silently, the moment he had touched the orb to the concavity in the brick. Fenris had grudgingly wrapped the sphere in layers of canvas and tucked it into his satchel; he did not like the vile thing, but he did not know if it would be needed later.

Always alert for routes of attack or egress, he had insisted Isabela identify the means to operate the door from the opposite side, while he darted upstairs for supplies: redundant quantities of torches and healing potions, an optimistic lyrium potion, and two large pieces of chalk, one of which he had broken in two and tucked in different pouches.

When he rejoined the pirate captain, the doors were still in absentia, and Isabela’s grin informed him of her success at locating the controls. He had tried to communicate to the rogue that she was not honor-bound to accompany him, but he lacked the tools to express such thoughts in socially acceptable terms. Thankfully, Isabela knew that, and was not offended by his awkward delivery, nor was she to be put off from the ‘fun’. It was a thin excuse, but neither needed to voice the underlying concern for the mage.

After lighting two torches, passing one to Isabela along with an unlit spare and a backup length of chalk, he took to the stairs without pause. Some decisions were better left unexamined.

Fenris lead them down the steep, narrow steps, reaching out to mark small X’s on the stone walls at regular intervals. It was superfluous in a straight stairwell, but it cost him nothing. Without any reconnaissance to fall back on, the next best tactic was an abundance of caution, contingencies upon contingencies.

The staircase was steep. Flickering light from both torches illuminated the path only a few scant paces around them; the fragile glow seemed a meager defense against the oppressive shadows that bided beyond. It was also narrow; he could easily touch both sides. The stone ceiling of the stairwell seemed to weigh on him, a constant reminder of the solid rock pressing all around them.

All of this was easily dismissed, but he found himself growing frustrated at the senseless irregularities. The entire corridor appeared to be rough-hewn directly from the rock; it was impossible to slip into a meditative rhythm, because the rise and run were not consistent from one step to the next. The steps themselves were not regularly flat or level; they sloped, or dipped in the center, or had a slight lip or a protruding edge.

He tried not to imagine the mage’s chatter filling the exigent silence. He tried not to think about what he would do, if this proved to be yet another dead end. He tried not to replay the last argument he had with the mage. He failed.

~~~

_“They go too far. That’s all I’m saying.”_

_Fenris felt the words escape his lips without consideration, and he knew it was a mistake even as he said them. “After what happened to Hawke’s mother, you still believe they go too far? You should not dismiss the inherent dangers of magic so easily.”_

_“Magic wasn’t the aggressor, that day. It was simply the tool at hand.”_

_The mage’s voice was thready, pained even. Fenris knew it was a mistake to discuss this, the most fundamental gap that separated them. It wasn’t fair, anymore. Now the argument had serious consequences if either got too angry – and the issue was so personal, so fundamental to each of them, that anger was so dangerously easy._

_“I agree with you. It was the tool at hand. A powerful tool, and a tool that not everyone has access to. It is the same as wealth, or influence. Those who have it will invariably have power over those who do not. And, eventually, those with power will abuse it, through greed, carelessness, or sheer accident. Those were your words to the witch, regarding blood magic.”_

_Anders clenched his fists, took a few breaths. “And you have just described the current state of the Templar Order.”_

_Fenris sighed. The mage echoed it._

_“Go ahead and say it, Fenris. I see you having one of your little mental debates over there. You might as well just give me the unpolished version.”_

_“I… alright. Please remember you said that.” Fenris looked away from tawny eyes, red-gold hair, warmth and light, to voice his dark thought. “I do not doubt your accounts. I trust your words. But a part of me continues to believe that the system here created a mage like you. The only mage I have ever known to be kind, and trustworthy. Can it be so wrong, if one such as yourself is a part of its legacy?”_

_The mage was quiet for a long time. His voice was bitter when he spoke again. “And it created Uldred, and Meredith, and Maker knows how many hard, bitter victims and perpetrators of abuse. As for me… I escaped.”_

~~~

Many minutes had passed in his reverie before the steps ceased at an abrupt landing, resuming at a 90-degree turn to the left. He paused, waiting for Isabela to feel along the walls, but there seemed no alternative path forward.

Two more quarter turns. The flights were uneven. 168 steps, 105, 141. It seemed haphazard. Rushed? No. Nothing about this undertaking could have been completed in a hurry. Possibly the result of unskilled labor. Or – and? – the stairs were designed to serve a function, so precision or aesthetics simply were not the main priority.

He heard the soft inhalation before Isabela spoke, but her whisper still seemed clangorous after the heavy silence. “I’m not complaining, but you do realize we will have to climb all those at some point?”

Fenris frowned but didn’t pause. “I will be glad if sore calves are the worst hardship we encounter.” After a moment, he supplied by way of apology, “I did try to dissuade you.”

Isabela snorted. “I know you’re trying to say you’re sorry… but, look, I’m here for the same reason you are. So, don’t be sorry, kay? Whatever happens.” Fenris contemplated that statement as the seemingly eternal declension continued.

Fifty-six steps later, he could feel the rogue staring at his back. After several false starts, she finally blurted, “Why do you call him ‘the mage’? I know you see him as… well, a person, at least. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. And I know he’s fun to tease, but why keep up the ‘nameless evil class of people’ act when it’s just you and me here?”

It took a while to formulate a response; it was not something he had needed to put into words before. “You think it a depreciation - the innominate mage. It is not.” If he were honest, it had been true, for a time. Strange, that the same words could mean opposing things, but that seemed fitting. “It is more… a title.”

Isabela stopped walking. When he turned, her brow was furrowed and her lips were forming the word ‘bullshit’ - but understanding seemed to dawn before the suspicious was voiced. “Oh. _The_ Mage.”

Fenris turned, discomfited by the way the pirate captain’s face brightened with understanding and then fell with comprehension. He should have ignored the question.

_The mage. The only one that matters._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the fun of this chapter, for me, was to play with the differences (and similarities, in many ways) in how these two boys think. It's sort of a bummer that it's under these circumstances. Also, lots of stolen dialogue/banter lines in this one.
> 
> For the record, this fic borrows heavily from the comic books and novels (because so much of what we know of Fenris and Tevinter don't show up in-game), but you don't need any real background in those to understand the story. 
> 
> Last thing - I was vaccinated this week (no real side effects, for those who are curious), and am (woefully) back to a normal work schedule, so updates may be cut back to once a week (probably Sunday). I didn't fully realize how much time I was putting into this story :/ I will go ahead and promise this right now: I will never leave a story incomplete. 
> 
> Also, I wrote up a detailed summary of what I envision the infamous manifesto would contain. I could post it as a bonus chapter next week, but I wasn't sure if that was just too nerdy.


	25. Enigma

Anders blinked. He was at a desk. He couldn’t have been asleep – he was sitting upright, hands resting on the rough surface beside a disorderly stack of parchment. Jagged, spidery script covered the pages in chaotic bursts. Here a large, slanting scribble, there a corner almost blackened by tiny, spiraling text. Most was entirely illegible, with a dash of mad rambling and repetitive phrases.

One scrawl stood out to him in the jumble, a breathlessly iterative sequence of ‘Karrkarakakarrasarraskarraskaraskarrras’.

_Oh._

The memory returned to him in arresting, horrifying fragments. Meredith and Orsino arguing. His own scolding words, driven by despair more than any premeditated plan. Karras’s sour breath on his face as the man leaned in to whisper, “I’ll be seeing you _soon.”_ The sudden spike of panic – of _course_ Meredith wouldn’t let his public challenge go unpunished - replaced by numb resolve. He knew it was coming, hardly flinched when the heavy gauntlet darted out, closed around his arm on his way back to Darkdown. 

The last thing Anders remembered was standing in a dark alley, his body blooming with fresh bruises, looking down at Karras’s corpse; or rather, the pieces of corpse. It had been torn apart – not like the shredded ribbons of a limb severed by a great bear’s mauling, or the tidy slices of a scalpel from an amputation – no, the flesh was literally torn, like the man was an unfortunate ragdoll in the hands of a giant four-year-old having a temper tantrum. 

And his face… _Oh Maker…_

Anders felt the incipient nausea, felt his muscles slacken.

-

 _No._ He couldn’t lose consciousness. _Can’t lose control._ His fingers clenched, nails gouging the cold, wooden surface of the desk, fighting both the horror of his memories and the rising panic at the consequences of falling off that precipice.

He fought. His muscled constricted, straining against the invisible foe. He leapt to his feet, but immediately felt his body curl forward; the misguided instinct to shield vital organs was of no help in this crisis.

-

The room began to spin. He couldn’t breathe - if only he could _breathe._

Blue light erupted in the room, the familiar fissures that signaled impending loss of dominion over his own body. Every time he opened his eyes, all he could see were the tendons and veins of his arms straining like bowstrings wound too tightly, ready to snap at the slightest prodding.

-

Instincts kicked in – the first time in a long time his training was invoked for its intended purpose. This was no time to panic; he didn’t know how many lucid moments were left to him, or if he would be capable of mounting a resistance should another opportunity arise.

Unbidden, a trickle of memories surfaced: the silent ‘thank you’ mouthed by a misty-eyed young man, the first mage he had helped to extricate from the Gallows; a tearful hug from a young mother, unable to put in words how grateful she was to take Kela home to the Alienage; Fenris, materializing in the harbor like a phantom of mist and moonlight to rescue him from the Templars; Fenris’s heart fluttering reluctantly back into rhythm, back into life, under his palm.

-

His body thrashed and strained under the invisible assault –

-

\- but his mind leaned into the wash of memories. A voice drifted in to accompany the images; _apathy is a weakness._ Justice’s words, words spoken from the mouth of a corpse when he had first met the spirit. It wasn’t a coincidence, he began to suspect; the flood of memories, those particular words – perhaps Anders wasn’t the only one trying to fight the corruption. And anyway, the words were true and right. He had a _say_ in this. He had not passively accepted imprisonment before, and he wouldn’t now, even if the prison was of his own making.

With renewed effort, he exerted the full force of his mind onto his recalcitrant body. A small victory: he breathed. Deep Idos breaths. Each one was both a catalyst and a triumph; the very act of breathing deeply helped calm his mind and also reassured him he was the one in control.

He drew on the multitudes of tiny, fleeting moments of equity and integrity and reason. Justice was impartial and fair, not hot-blooded and wrathful. He had been inadvertently nurturing the wrong one, but Justice wasn’t fully lost to him.

 _You are safe._ Fenris’s words, his calm confidence. It helped.

-

A grating noise startled him, triggering a fresh surge of blue light; that brief moment of inattention nearly lost him the gossamer threads of control he had so tediously been spinning.

-

Whatever the noise was, whatever was to come, he couldn’t face it as Vengeance; control was the only thing that mattered now. He struggled in a way that couldn’t be described; he fought to regain consciousness, bore down on the invading presence, tuned out everything except the memories of clinic patients reunited with loved ones, of mages slipping away into the night, freed from their tormentors, and, above all, he thought of an escaped slave looking at him without guile and saying, “I trust you.”

-

A gasp registered, belatedly, in some remote part of his mind. _Izzy?_ As if to mock him, he felt his eyes fluttering open, head turning to the noise. It was Izzy. And, _oh… oh no_. _Fenris._ Fenris was staring at him with terror writ large on his face. He wanted to turn, to hide. _Don’t see me… you can’t see me like this._ But he couldn’t turn, he didn’t have the strength to spare; it was all wrapped up in the covert battle he waged with his entire being.

His grasp started to slip as a new terror gripped him. Losing this battle was already terrifying – _no, don’t think of Karras, don’t think of what it’s capable of -_ but having Fenris watch him lose was the greatest tragedy he could imagine.

-

While Anders looked on helplessly, Fenris schooled his expression, features falling into that achingly blank, utterly unreadable mask. And then he took a step forward. And another.

_-_

_NO! Maker no, Fenris, please run, just go, I don’t know what it will do, oh Maker please don’t…_ but Anders couldn’t force his mouth to form the words, and Fenris approached even as Anders revised his assessment of the worst tragedy he could image. He couldn’t let Vengeance hurt Fenris. He couldn’t survive it. _Not by my hand. Not him._ He could only hope his fear might manifest in his face as warning.

_-_

It might have. Fenris hesitated, but only a moment. The warrior took another step, stoic and relentless. _And still,_ Anders realized, _this foolish, insane, brave, indescribable man comes for me. Approaches what must be his worst fear – a mage, an abomination, a person he put his trust in against all logic and reason_.

And on the heels of the subsequent riptide of emotion, Anders had a thought that was almost funny.

 _It would be here. At the worst possible time, in the worst possible place: this is where I discover that I am utterly gone on Fenris_. 

In some way, this knowledge changed him irrevocably. _And in such a short time,_ he mused, fully cognizant of the absurdity, the absolute preposterousness of having remote, disjointed romantic reveries while simultaneously engaging in a potentially lethal tug-of-war for his own damned body _._

But it also wasn’t ridiculous, because the knowledge was humbling, and invigorating, and so very terrifying, and suddenly… suddenly Anders felt _powerful_.

And he discovered he was much stronger than he thought. He knew it, before the internal struggle was won, he knew in his bones that he would win this fight if it meant keeping Fenris from being hurt by another mage. When Fenris closed the distance, a mere pace away, and reached out to lightly rest his hand on the cracked, glowing skin of Anders’ cheek, Anders had already won because he would never betray the precious trust that he had so arduously earned.

He felt it, the moment his capricious spirit, his erstwhile confederate, resigned itself to dormancy. The spectral glow faded, casting half the small room back into shadow, the meager brazier inadequate to the task of illumination. He was distantly aware of the two torches Izzy held, one in each hand, and got his first real glimpse of the chamber: rough-cut black stone, the very same jet rock that Kirkwall was built of and on. _I’m still in Kirkwall,_ he thought distantly.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light, his chest heaving with both residual panic and his massive exertion of willpower. He allowed himself a scant few heartbeats of celebration, relief, optimism – he _could_ do this – while he tilted his head into the strong, elegant fingers that brushed against his cheek. _Just this, just for a moment_.

* * *

But only a moment. There were, of course, pressing matters. “I think I – I think Vengeance killed Knight-Lieutenant Karras,” he said, voice cracking at the edges - dehydration and disuse, no doubt. As opening gambits went, it wasn't a very coherent choice, but his brain had little to do with it. The words were driven by something more visceral, roiling in his chest and guts and spewing out like bile. He swallowed, clearing his throat, and waited.

Izzy was the first to recover. “Well, the guy was apparently trying to diddle every underage mage in Thedas. We should have killed him years ago when we had the chance. Good on you, I say.” Her voice was light, a study in breezy casualness, but there was a hint of strain around her lips, a slight squint to her eyes. That was alright, Anders decided – she had every right to be a little unnerved, under the circumstances.

He shifted his gaze to the warrior, who slowly dropped his hand back to his side. Fenris was looking him over with penetrating attention, but his face was utterly closed off, his expression entirely enigmatic, and he refused to meet Anders’ eyes.

Anders heard Izzy shifting restlessly, and this cued him in to the fact that his acclimation to Fenris’s long pauses was something of an anomaly; to normal people, this gaping silence was undoubtedly uncomfortable.

His mouth was open to diffuse the tension, self-deprecating quip ready on his tongue, when Fenris took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Anders hesitated, debated with himself for a moment, then reached a hand up to lightly brush back the warrior’s fringe.

Fenris opened his eyes, bringing the full brunt of those mossy green depths to bear on Anders’ strung-out, weary soul.

He wasn’t sure who moved first, but the subsequent tangle of limbs was so fluid, so inexorable, it may as well have been choreographed. Fenris: a step forward, arms circling and clinging and pulling until there was no room for light to pass between them. Anders: a matching step and a choked noise, head dropping to bury his face in the crook of Fenris’s neck, one hand carding through the hair at the back of the warrior’s head, the other clutching his waist like he might simply vanish at any moment. Anders felt one of the warrior’s hands roam his back as if to be certain he was corporeal, while the other finally stilled once it clenched a handful of his tunic. The warrior’s head shifted restlessly against him, and if it hadn’t been Fenris, one might be forgiven for assuming he was nuzzling, burrowing into Anders’ neck and shoulder.

He lost track of time, buried in the sensory onslaught that was Fenris. He breathed him in, he held and felt and got lost in the other man, this insane and prickly and beautiful man. There were, of course, so many questions, so many blanks in his memory. But the most urgent ones were not really even questions – they were just small words and reassurances, passed in a whispered, disjointed exchange between then, mouths next to ears. 

“Why…”

“Because you were gone.”

 _“_ But… how?”

“Does it matter?”

 _“_ I knew you’d -”

“I thought you were - ”

“‘m right here.” 

Anders basked in the touch, more so because it seemed that Fenris was relishing the easy affection. Something in the way the warrior leaned into every point of contact made it clear that not many people touched him casually or for prolonged periods. Anders reveled in it. He felt privileged, special, like he was the only one permitted to appreciate what Fenris obscured from the rest of the world. At some point it occurred to him that he might be dreaming – dead? – and went so far as to gnaw his lip. But he only felt the sharp pain; he didn’t jolt awake, and Fenris was still there.

He might have been content to stay like that until he collapsed, but a soft sigh caused Fenris to pull back. He felt a spike of irritation, which was immediately replaced with the realization that he and Fenris were not alone in the universe.

There was, curiously, a pang of loss at the lack of elf wrapped around him, but it faded quickly; he opened his eyes to see that Izzy was still standing next to the door they had apparently entered from. She, of course, was watching them without a trace of self-consciousness or embarrassment. If anything, her face was… was there a word for happy and sad all wrapped up together in a soft smile and furrowed brow and eyes that were tender and hard at the same time?

Without prompting, she shook her head and broadened that weak smile. “I didn’t realize. You two are… well, damn. Good for you.” She approached only to pass a torch to Fenris, then turned and, mumbling something about keeping lookout, she stepped out of the room.

Anders stared at the door for a moment, struggling to make the abrupt transition from the desperate, emotional whirlwind - of battle and survival and fear and _Fenris -_ to the rational pragmatism that was needed now. This endeavor was complicated by how achingly aware he was of the warrior standing at his side; he was almost afraid to look over, knowing it would derail his attempts to think because he had so many things waiting to burst out of his throat that Fenris needed to know and he needed to explain, and he just needed Fenris to _understand_ , even if it was -

Fenris rescued him from his eminent failure to concentrate with a polite cough. Anders gave him a sidelong glance; Fenris gave him a meaningful look. “We will have a discussion later?”

It wasn’t exactly a question. The brilliant, beautiful bastard. “Of course,” Anders demurred.

“Are you well? I have potions,” Fenris rumbled, unbuckling a pouch from his waist. He thrust it towards Anders and continued, “There is also a waterskin, a small amount of food, and a spare torch.” Anders couldn’t keep the awe from his face at the warrior’s foresight.

 _Not the time to catalog his many remarkable traits,_ Anders chided. Instead, he slung the pouch around his waist, grumbling that he seemed to have lost his own satchel. He was suddenly aware of how dirty and bare he was, dressed in leggings and a tunic that smelled like weeks-old laundry. He didn’t want to think about that either, so he did a quick internal scan.

Justice had never taken control for an extended period of time, so he had no yardstick by which to measure, but it still came as a surprise that apparently spirits didn’t require much from human bodies. The small chamber didn’t boast any evidence that he had been eating, drinking, or using the bathroom, but he also wasn’t struck with an immediate urge for any of those things - which he certainly would if they had been denied him. Of course, Kristoff had not decayed at a normal pace with Justice animating him, but he wasn’t sure if that was entirely the same thing.

He did a final quick scan to check for injuries, and found he was relatively intact aside from old bruises. “I think… huh. I think I’m alright. But thank you. You really know how to plan a rescue.” 

Fenris seemed to unfurl at the compliment, relaxing and taking up space simultaneously. He combed his fingers through his hair and straightened, squared his shoulders, then strode up to the desk. There was a certain panache to his movements - _Oh, do stop it_ , he told his brain sternly – as he confidently rifled through the papers on top. Anders wove a palm-sized spell of heatless fire and perused the strangely unfamiliar room – four stone walls, a desk, a brazier, his staff – _Oh, my staff! –_ and not much else. Utterly spartan. How did he get here? Where _was_ here?

“Fenris… where the hell are we?”

“Approximately 918 feet beneath the mansion, and perhaps 200 feet northwest; Isabela and I followed stairs originating in the Idos room that lead to a hallway of indeterminate length. Our luck was remarkable. That hall was the first doorway we encountered on the stairs, though the steps continue downward. This is the fourth room in that hallway.”

Anders tried to absorb that information in stride. “Were the first three rooms like this one?”

Fenris’s lip curled up on one side. “Yes and no. The other three lacked one minor detail.”

Anders was still processing that there was apparently a secret staircase in the Idos room – _but of course there’s a damned secret staircase in the stupid Magister’s stupid hidden lair –_ and so it took a moment for the barb to land. “Minor detail?” he huffed with feigned indignance.

“This writing is -”

“Creepy? I know..”

“ - remarkably similar to the defacement on your manifesto.”

“You read my manifesto?”

“Yes. Is it the demon? Can demons write?”

“Dare I ask what you thought of the manifesto? And… well, I don’t know. It’s not like with Justice; I always used to know what was happening, at least – but now it’s all just a big black hole.”

“A shame. And… is this really the opportune moment for literary analysis?”

“I guess not.”

“So you…” Fenris frowned. “How much of the past week do you remember?”

“It’s been a WEEK?” _Maker. “_ I only have bits… I woke up, maybe two or three times, always in this room, I think. Oh, and I remember being pulled into an alley before…” he trailed off, fairly certain that the incident with Karras fit into the ‘later’ discussion. “What I don’t understand is how I got down here. I mean, I sure as hell didn’t know there were secret stairs in the secret lair…”

Fenris gave him a pensive look. “Perhaps it had something to do with your dreams? Or,” the warrior tensed slightly, “Or perhaps there were other parties involved. Now might be a good time to withdraw back to the mansion.”

“I guess… I feel like we’re missing something, but I guess we can return with Hawke and company another time.” Even as he spoke, the plan began coalescing in a rough mental sketch, but something else was niggling at the back of his mind.

It finally occurred to him: Isabela hadn’t made a single sexual innuendo or catcall, despite their impressive rescue and the prolonged groping. He was suddenly quite worried, and the mention of co-conspirators didn’t help to put his mind at ease. “We should check on Izzy.” Fenris’s eyes widened and he spun for the door at the same moment Anders did.

Incidentally, said pirate darted into the room just as he reached the doorway, and he barely avoided a collision. “Izzy! Are you alri-”

“You need to see this.” The rogue’s tone brooked no argument.

Anders snatched his staff and followed. She led them down a hallway spotted with doors at tight, regular intervals; from the measured spacing, each room seemed an identical copy of the small, barren quarters he had woken up in. Anders increased the size of his little flame, casting eerie, green-tinted shadows in the rooms, as glimpsed in passing as they strode past the occasional door that was broken or ajar. 

At length, they reached the end of the hallway, which terminated in a doorway leading to a spacious, square antechamber, bare aside from four identical doors set in the center of each wall. He had a brief moment of panic at the idea of getting lost in the oppressive monotony of black stone, but then Fenris pulled out a piece of chalk and made a vivid mark, X1, next to the door they emerged from and _of course Fenris brought chalk and potions and food and water._

Izzy didn’t hesitate as she led them to the door on the left, but Anders called for a pause to examine the door directly across from where they entered. It was identical in every way except for the presence of an ornate lock.

“I didn’t bother trying to pick it yet, but I probably could,” the rogue bragged casually.

“I don’t know, Izzy – it has a faint hum, some type of lingering magic.” Curious. He could only assume that, given most enchantments faded with the passing of the caster, it was most likely either an intricate, powerful spell pre-dating the restrictions imposed by the Circle, or something that had been woven relatively recently. “Maybe we can investigate next time we’re down here.”

“I found a set of keys when I… discovered your manifesto.” At a look from Anders, Fenris made a dismissive gesture. “The details are unimportant. While it seems extremely unlikely that they fit this particular lock, the keys were similarly” - another vague gesture - “fancy.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Izzy was shifting, impatient to show them her discovery, so he added it to his mental list of oddities and followed the rogue out of the antechamber. Fenris paused to place another mark, O1, on the doorway. _Smart – different markings for entry and exit doors. Is there some sort of formal training program for navigating mazes in Tevinter?_

They followed another hallway, this one very similar to the previous, save that hasty peeks through open and broken doors revealed single beds in each room rather than a desk. They made for a rather unsettling sight; each bed he saw was neatly made, but the bedding was either falling apart or faded nearly translucent with age. Anders wasn’t sure what to make of that. The previous occupants had tidied up before entirely deserting the facilities?

At the end, Izzy paused in front of an oversized, heavy metal door; it occupied the full wall and seemed entirely incongruous with the wooden doors they had seen thus far. Izzy put a finger to her lips. “Beyond this door is… something else. I don’t know if anyone else is down here, so this is your advance warning not to make weird, shocked noises.”

Anders grumbled at that – _I don’t make weird, shocked noises –_ but immediately proceeded to make a weird, shocked noise as Izzy swung open the enormous door.

‘Something else’ didn’t do the sight justice.

* * *

It was like looking out over the Waking Sea. That was the only comparison Anders could possibly draw. For the first time in his life, Anders felt a wave of vertigo as he took a step forward and looked out.

It was, in essence, a cavern. Stalactites, blue and orange and dusky grey dripping from the ceiling two span or more above them. Below… below them was nothing. Well, there was a stone walkway, probably eight or ten feet wide, curving around the lip of the chasm to either side of him - but it rather _felt_ like nothing because beyond that was… nothing. Just empty, infinite abyss.

The cavern was _immense,_ as if a cylinder the size of Sundermount had been bored from the core of the planet.

“Maker…” he breathed. He heard Izzy huff in annoyance at his inability to stay silent, but soon she was edging up next to him. “Andraste’s tits… _look_ at that. It goes on forever!” the rogue cried, quite a bit louder than him.

And it really did. Doors, identical to the one they had emerged from, peppered the stone walkway at regular intervals – hundreds upon hundreds of doors, spiraling down along the path into the void below. On either side of each door were huge lamps, the same half-peapod braziers that he recognized from the miniature versions in the Idos room. Like the cavern itself, the lights were colossal; the pair mounted on either side of the door they emerged from were about twice as tall as he was. 

He couldn’t initially see the other side of the great cavern, but his eye followed the stone pathway that snaked around in a languid spiral and realized he could, in fact, see the far side of the walkway if he had something to focus on. How could he see that far? Yes, there were braziers – but still, these alone couldn’t account for the light suffusing the cavern – he had seen enough of the Deep Roads to know it should be pitch dark outside the intermittent perimeter of the lamps.

“Where is all the light coming from?” he thought aloud. His mind couldn’t make sense of the way shadows worked down here, but he suspected there was some sort of light illuminating the jet stone from somewhere below them. 

The mystery was more compelling than the shock. He took a shaky step forward, then paused when he realized that there was no wall or rail separating the stone terrace from the yawning abyss.

He nearly yelped when something touched his palm; Fenris’s hand lightly wrapped around his. It was so unexpected – had anyone ever taken his hand like this, to offer stability, reassurance? - and he had the momentary urge to pull back, to provide cover in case the touch was accidental.

His eyes sought the warrior’s; there was nothing accidental in that stoic face. Anders felt his lips crack into a beaming smile; he gave the calloused fingers a gentle squeeze, and edged forward. Another step forward, and another, and soon he could peer over the lip of the chasm; Fenris stood a pace behind, and he felt a sturdy tension as the other man subtly braced himself.

He steeled himself and looked all the way down. The chasm was so deep he could hardly make out anything around the bottom; the diameter seemed to narrow considerably, but he thought that was just a trick of the immeasurable depth. From here, all he could see was a faint reddish glow – was that the light? Or another trick?

He had to step back when another wave of vertigo washed over him. “Maker… what the hell is this place?” he asked rhetorically.

He felt a tug on his arm as Fenris pulled him back, not ungently, his grip softening somewhat as soon as Anders stepped back from the precipice. To his surprise, the warrior traded places with him. Anders braced himself and squeezed tighter when the warrior approached the edge and leaned out cavalierly – _stupid brave beautiful bastard, please don’t trip –_ but Fenris was apparently made of sterner stuff; he just looked around and shrugged a little, then retreated from the treacherous edge.

Izzy said it best with a long, low whistle. “So… this is pretty weird, right? I mean, I know we’ve seen some weird stuff in Kirkwall these past few years but… this is…like, is there even a place for this on the ‘weird shit bingo’ card? I mean, outside of swear words, I don’t even have a vocabulary for this. It’s just… fucking…” she trailed off, and honestly, Anders wasn’t sure he could think of a more elegant description than those three words.

He felt a slightly hysterical giggle bubble out of him. “I think you should be in charge of describing this to Hawke. Stipulation: I need to be there for it.”

Fenris snorted, a corner of his mouth twitching up. “Hawke would interpret that as an invitation, particularly coming from Isabela.”

Anders couldn’t hold back another round of giggles. “Even if I was there?”

“Especially if you were there,” Izzy quipped. A good sign, Anders thought – he knew she was distinctly uncomfortable down here, so a trickle of her usual ribald humor was more than welcome.

“So, what do we do now?”

“Well, gee, Anders – let’s go exploring! Andraste’s perky pinky nipples, Sparkle Fingers, what do you think? We get the hell out of here and never breathe a word to Hawke – you know she’ll drag us all down here for loot.”

Fenris hesitated, but finally nodded his agreement. “We can return later, if you wish.” This he said quietly, almost under his breath, and Anders realized he was leaving the option open only for him. It was all the persuading he needed. He headed back to the door they came from with an overly casual, “All right then, let’s -” but something caught his eye. “Hey, wait, what’s that?”

He kneeled next to the door, noting for the first time a deep groove chiseled in the side of the stone terrace. It blended into the architecture, but he could see it running in a continuous line to either side of them. There was some sort of faint residue…

He dragged a finger through and held it up to the light. “Blood. It’s dried blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while I generally am a big supporter of constructive criticism (*especially for my own work!) I genuinely have very few complaints with BioWare. I really respect the content they created, the nuances and even the inconsistencies, the very human flaws and foibles of the characters and peoples. Obviously, many disagree with me, and that’s fine. 
> 
> The one thing that consistently crops up on my “gaht dammit BioWare” list is the fucking Enigma of Kirkwall codex. WHAT THE HELL. You can’t just… how could you… that’s just too big of a thing to leave entirely to unsolved mystery codices :/ I have gone on alllllll sorts of witch hunts trying to at least narrow the options as to what the eff is going on under Kirkwall that requires “lakes of blood”. What the hell were they doing, if “a blood mage can channel great power from a simple cut. At least a thousand unfortunates died here every year for centuries"?
> 
> Narrowing options didn’t really help, as it turned out. This could easily turn into an essay, so let me just say: I’m not convinced it was a second attempt at entering the Black City (a. why? b. too… obvious). Not a Forbidden One (seriously, if Hawke can take Xebenkeck, the math doesn’t add up to require the power of literal lakes of blood). There’s a lot of speculation about the forgotten elven pantheon (as that was the Seeker’s original inquiry when creating the Band of Three), and Titans (given the nearby thaig), and whatnot. 
> 
> I don’t know. I don’t like puzzles that can’t be solved.
> 
> But…anything I come up with will be outside of canon by necessity, and I feel like things can get a little wonky when fics go all tinfoil hat with No-Prize Hypotheses. So, my plan was to keep this arc short, use some plot-relevant bits, and to leave the overall mystery somewhat vague and fill in plausible gaps that fit within canon. I’m open to argument on that front, however, because part of me is still like… gahtdammitbioware. 
> 
> The chasm is a figment of my imagination that spawned shortly after discovering the tunnels and shenanigans on the Champion of Kirkwall tarot card. Some have argued the red at the bottom is just Hawke’s blood-on-face fetish, others vehemently contend a red lyrium or ‘lakes of blood’ double meaning. Well, it’s my fanfic, dammit XD
> 
> Oh, oh! There is a companion piece to last week's post: Fenris gets a glimpse of the [Infamous Manifesto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814268)!
> 
> *Side note: I really mean that. And I recognize that not everyone is comfortable leaving feedback, questions, and/or constructive criticism in the public domain, but anyone is welcome to email the tipline: alwaysorithia@outlook.com


	26. Enigma – Processing

“Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you believe in lesser evils?”

“That is not a reasonable question, nor do I believe it is the question you wish to ask.”

Sigh. “You’re right. But I can’t ask the question I really want to ask. It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Better for whom, exactly?”

“Everyone.”

“You do not think I should be able to determine that for myself?”

Another sigh. Anders held his hands out, a fist atop a flat palm.

“One, two, three… Aha! Looks like I’ve finally broken my losing streak.”

“Best two out of three?”

Anders flashed him a smile; it was endearing that the warrior continued to ask that, given that neither of them had ever relented.

Fenris grumbled. “Fine. I will abide by the decision. You may keep your rationale a secret.” He bit off the last word, and Anders could hardly fault him for his irritation. He was keeping secrets, after a fashion, but then, did vague thoughts and half-baked ideas count as secrets? He didn’t want the warrior to bear any responsibility for his actions, and he didn’t even know what those actions were yet. Hardly the same as an outright lie.

“But that does not mean I have to answer. The question you posit is too vague, and I do not wish to tacitly endorse something without understanding the circumstances.”

“Hmf. I guess that’s fair – not sporting, but fair. I suppose I should thank you for letting me know I need to be careful about how I word these little gambling propositions – I’m sure that will be good to know in the future.” Fenris's response came as an overacted huff of indifference.

…

It had been a surreal hour or so since returning to the mansion. They had emerged from the interminable hike up the fourteen billion stairs - _Fenris had simply lost count; 918 steps my ass_ – to a dark, quiet evening. On the long trek back, Fenris had recounted some of his attempts to locate him over the previous days - with several interruptions for Izzy to recount just how dark and stormy he had been in Anders’ absence - and had also warned him to mind the new traps the pirate had set in the mansion.

It was a long walk, though. He had plenty of time to brood in the silent moments between halting, disjointed conversation and Izzy’s incessant repetition of the same sea shanty. _Damn tune is so catchy._

Once they reached the mansion, the pirate captain had been quite eager to leave, and really, who could blame her. She paused to give Anders a quick hug and a warm, if exhausted, “Welcome back, Sparkle Fingers.” Fenris had tolerated her hug with much more grace than usual. He even held her arms for a moment as she pulled away, murmuring a quiet, intense ‘thank you’ before she slipped away. Anders resolutely ignored the small cramp that coiled in his belly – he certainly wasn’t jealous of their easy friendship. Hadn’t their shared adventure revolved around rescuing him, after all?

He had made Fenris show him the mechanism to open the secret door and promised to not go exploring on his own. The staff was bundled back into heap of canvas and returned it to the wine cellar, but he held onto the strange orb-key for further investigation. It seemed like a simple, benign crystal when separated from the malevolent staff, but Anders didn’t want to assume anything was safe at the moment.

Satina was hanging low in the eastern sky – _or was that the other moon? I can never keep them straight_ – and night had fully settled across Kirkwall. _Strange, that the night sky could be darker than an underground cavern._ It seemed like such a normal night, but it didn’t have any right to be; Anders felt like the world should seem different, after a week apart from it.

A week. _Maker_. What had he been doing down there for a week? And how did Vengeance know about the secret tunnels?

Anders had immediately commandeered the bathroom, as the sweat from their uphill climb had not in any way improved the stale bouquet he was wafting, but a bath and change of clothes improved his mood considerably.

Afterwards, Anders had drained the tub and heated fresh water while mentally plotting the mechanics of a wirium fire rune for future use. While Fenris took his turn with the bath, Anders had retreated to the kitchen to cook up a thank-you-for-saving-my-ass dinner. That was parity, wasn’t it?

A subtle tension had stretched between the two since Izzy left; words and explanations that could wait, but not long. _Fenris didn’t back down at the sight of Vengeance. He hugged me_. There was room for optimism, but there was also fear of careless words and defensive reactions.

…

And now they were clean, and fed, and the tension had increased considerably. So, naturally, Anders took the most circuitous route to the central conversation, certain that he’d find the right words if they could just start talking first.

“Ok, let me reframe the question. Have you ever thought about doing something to end slavery in Tevinter? I mean, we’ve made a pretty significant dent in the trade out of Kirkwall, but…” Anders trailed off, noticing the hard edge the crept into Fenris’s expression.

“Of course. I used to think of little else.”

“Used to? What changed?”

Fenris’s eyes darted up to meet his. The warrior’s posture became cagey, his reticence almost palpable. “Many things have changed.” He exhaled sharply, shifting in the confines of his chair, and dropped his eyes back to his plate. “Regardless, there are frequent uprisings among slaves, and it never amounts to more than vicious, indiscriminate bloodshed in retaliation. I do not know how to explain.” He paused a moment. “Consider what farmers do when a population of livestock are infected with a contagion.”

Anders felt the hair on his arms prickle as a chill skimmed up his spine. _They eliminate all nearby animals to eradicate the spread, and then start fresh. Oh, Fenris._ He swallowed a few times, but persevered. “Ok, but what if you could… I don’t know, centralize the uprisings, somehow? If you could get all those little rebellions to coordinate, give them a common goal?”

Fenris seemed pensive, his gaze growing distant. “I cannot conceive of a way to do such a thing. Why? Have you turned your sights to liberating slaves as well as mages?”

Anders shrugged halfheartedly. “I don’t see why not. I… don’t laugh at me, ok? A part of me thinks we could do almost anything together.”

Fenris looked back up at him, his gaze piercing, analyzing. “You are serious. But you also have alternative motives for this line of questioning.”

Anders wilted. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but at least the warrior had not laughed at his fanciful notions. “Well, yes, I do. I like the idea of participating in something you care about. That is true. But I also feel like part of the issue with Justice is how passive I’ve been towards the cause he joined me to support. I got a note, a message from the Mage Underground – well, what’s left of it, anyways. The network was almost entirely destroyed. And worst of all…” He paused, taking a steadying breath. It was nearly impossible to speak of these things without a rush of anger and hopelessness, but he knew, now, the dire consequences of being consumed by it.

He breathed. _Justice_. Justice could be ruthless, but it was cold and rational. There was a balance to strike here, and he needed to get better at it. He waited long enough for the deep breaths and just memories to settle his pounding heart, then continued, “I need to do something for the mages. Karras confirmed that Meredith has sent to Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment.”

Fenris eyed him speculatively; Anders could practically see his gears turning, processing the implications of Anders’ words and conspicuous pauses. “This note. Might I assume you received it the day of the confrontation in Hightown?” Anders nodded. “Right before I found you passed out under the desk?

 _Shit. Of course._ How had Fenris figured that out before he did? Of course that was Vengeance. _Maker, if only I’d realized that sooner, maybe I could have avoided this whole mess._

“It is valuable information. Unless the vandalism on your manifesto was present before…” he paused, waiting until Anders shook his head before continuing, “then it would appear the demon was only able to take control for a short period that first time, and it chose to use that time scribbling on your manifesto.”

Anders hummed, his mind whirling to keep up with Fenris’s relentless logic. “Right, but then Karras...”

Fenris stilled. Anders knew he owed the warrior an explanation, and he felt it even more acutely when Fenris remained silent. The silence was revelatory. He wasn’t going to force the issue; he was leaving the choice of disclosure to Anders. _Well then_.

“Right. So, Karras. I don’t think I was quite in my right mind – the memories are… foggy. I know he pulled me into an alley, beat on me a little, and then he was dead. Gruesomely dead.” Anders felt a heavy weight settle over him; as hard as it was to admit to the warrior, that wasn’t the full story.

In halting, bald terms, he described his first encounter with Justice, the strange friendship they had developed, and the way Justice goaded him to be less selfish. He put all his cards on the table, only struggling at the end as the story elicited thoughts, and thoughts began to form connections.

_It must have started the minute we were joined. That first encounter with Rolan and the Templars – I blacked out for part of that; I remember some of it clear as day, and then I just woke up to the bloody abattoir of rent limbs and torn and eaten flesh._

So, right from the start, whatever it was about him had already begun corrupting Justice.

He finished the story, and then looked down, plucking nervously at his tunic. Fenris had come for him, had been willing to face Vengeance for him. He knew all that, cognitively. Still. He was anxious, and he couldn’t help but prod the area gingerly, like a bruise, just to see if it would hurt. “So, now you know. It happened once before. And then, once I learned what Meredith was planning, all it took was a few bruises and I completely lost control.”

“I am unsure whether being torn apart by a demon is more or less pleasant than having one’s heart forcibly removed via the chest cavity. Gruesome acts are not something I can credibly reproach you for.” The response was notably quick - no long pause to choose words. _So, not something Fenris struggled to express. Interesting._

The warrior sighed, standing to retrieve and uncork a bottle of wine. He took a long swallow, then leaned back against the wall just to the left of Anders. He was buying time. “I am very disturbed by the loss of control, however.” He deliberated a moment, then added earnestly, “Yet I watched you fight back and win. Why did you not fight back before?”

“I think I did, but… I don’t know. I didn’t really understand that it was Vengeance, and I didn’t know he could just, well, shut me down like that. I didn’t fully realize the consequences.”

“But something changed. What was different, down in the tunnels?”

Anders groaned. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Fenris furrowed his brow; Anders pictured his thought process as he mentally plodded through to the only logical conclusion. At length, he gave a small nod, then ducked his head slightly, a corner of his lip twitching up minutely.

Anders wanted to leave it there. More than anything, he wanted to be the kind of person that could just accept things for what they seemed. But he wasn’t that person, and the undercurrent of fear and doubt – the core belief that one day Fenris’s hatred of mages would overpower whatever interest he had taken in Anders – that simmering fear needed to vent, somehow.

He hated that, loathed that he was still so uncertain, and suddenly the long-held fear bubbled to the surface in the guise of anger. “I still don’t get it. Why didn’t you run? I wanted you to, desperately. I was so scared… damnit, Fenris, I was terrified that something might happen to you, that my body might be used to hurt you. You’re brave, I get it, but that was just foolhardy – you just run right into danger with no thought of what it might mean to others.”

 _Irrational,_ Anders scolded himself. _Fenris thinks things through – five, ten steps beyond most, at least. What a hypocrite, thoughtlessly accusing him of being thoughtless._ His stomach felt like it was trying to duck down and take cover, guilt tying it in knots.

Fenris grew still, his eyes narrowing. He looked sidelong at Anders like one might examine a half-played chess board. When he responded, his tone was stiff, that damned sober formality like a wall between them. “I have been accused several times this past week of being ‘single-minded’. Well. I intended to find you, and then I found you.” The words were simple, almost trite, but Anders wasn’t fooled. The warrior didn’t mince words. That meant something, something important.

“That’s not really an answer though, is it. Weren’t you afraid?”

“Yes.”

Anders’ heart hammered uncomfortably, but the words poured out of him regardless. “But? Maker, I don’t know what I expected, but… Fenris, come on. What are we even doing here? You hate mages, and from the little I know, you have damn good reason to. So, what the hell is this?” The question sounded needy and unvarnished and raw, but he couldn’t take it back. It was time for a measure of stark-naked truth between them. Even as he fixed his posture, determined to not try to escape the hole he dug himself, he heard his voice digging it even deeper. “Augh! I just proved that you were right all along – I _am_ dangerous!” Anders flinched a little at his own words.

“Yes, you are.”

Anders clenched his fists, hating that he was so vulnerable in this, while Fenris seemed so unflappable. But, damnit, he was an insecure mess sometimes. If his weaknesses were going to ruin everything, sooner was better; like a gangrenous wound, he would amputate early, not risk the whole by waiting and hoping he could keep the situation stable indefinitely.

So, resolutely, he waited, ignoring the near-overwhelming urge to back down, to smooth the ruffled feathers.

But then Fenris began to pace, and it somehow made Anders feel even worse. When he spoke, his words were low, but sharp in a way Anders hadn’t heard directed at him since his first night in the mansion. “You ask for explanations I cannot give. It is completely irrational to feel the things I feel for you. It would be easier not to feel anything. To be able to shut off that side of myself completely.”

He took a long draught from the wine bottle, then looked down at it with a snarl, as though it had personally offended him. “I do not believe you know what you risk with your efforts to liberate southern mages. You do not have the experience, the first-hand knowledge of the atrocities that mages are capable of, to temper your goals against. I believe you have noble intentions, and you are not unreasonable. You seek some middle ground, but you are entirely ignorant of half the spectrum. And how easy it is for equality to pass into tyranny.” Here he paused, turning to face Anders head-on while drawing himself up; he looked like he had down in the tunnels, his posture radiating challenge. _And fear,_ Anders realized, _but not because of Vengeance._

“I have no explanations for you, mage. I did not think I needed them. You know me. Or, I thought you did.”

That stung, and Anders felt himself shrink down a little in the chair. The warrior was right, of course. He knew Fenris wasn’t unflappable, that he was just as vulnerable in this conversation as Anders was himself. He knew that, knew it better than anyone.

“You…” Fenris trailed off, then started again, his voice low and more gritty than usual. “It is possible that you have fanciful notions of who and what I am. You idealize me. I, admittedly, have not discouraged it." A huff of agitation, self-deprecating and bitter, filled the silence. "I am just a man. An escaped slave, with fears and desires and sentiment that defy all logic.” Another pause as his brows drew down - his face could be so expressive when he allowed it, and now the pained expression was visible in every line of him. “I was presented with a choice between fears. Risk facing a demon, or risk losing you again.” 

Anders’ mind played the words on repeat, but his mouth had gone dry, his voice hoarse when he managed to stammer, “Of… course, of course you’re mortal. Of course you feel things. Maker, I’ve bungled this. I probably do idealize you, in some ways, but I don’t even want some ideal version of you. I really like the prickly, snarly, poorly treated version standing right here.”

“So what is the point of this argument?”

A noise, bitter and sharp with turmoil, boiled up from deep in Anders’ throat. He couldn’t find words that wouldn’t further inflame the argument or sound pathetic. _That I’m not good enough for you! That you were right, and I’m a mage, and dangerous._

Fenris watched him carefully for a moment, and then his expression melted into something… softer. Hurt, and sad. “Ah.” He sighed, but ceased his pacing. “I have never met someone so determined to beat himself into submission.” He took a step towards Anders and looked him dead in the eye. “If you cannot trust what you observe, let me be clear. Mage, I…” He exhaled sharply, then continued, “Anders. I care for you. I do not always agree with or approve of your decisions, but that does not seem to matter. I still care.”

Anders could hardly breathe, wondering if he had accidentally spoke his thoughts aloud, or if he was just that obvious. Regardless, he let the words penetrate deeply, absorbing and processing them while he stared dumbly at the warrior. Fenris wasn’t self-conscious, didn’t fidget as Anders stared.

So, Anders let his eyes roam over the warrior; all severe lines and a stern expression. A tightly coiled, well-honed machine for a body. Sharp armor and sharper tongue, when needed. He was carefully and deliberately constructed; agile, tough, and powerful. That was all conditioned and intentional. He presented a certain visage, and he relied on that presentation and his carefully cultivated strength as his primary defenses against the world. 

But he was seemingly entirely unaware of the overall effect; he was lithe, and strong, and dangerous, but graceful and beautiful in addition to and because of that fearsome strength. He was like a sea creature that had formed a hard, chitinous shell as a bulwark around the tender flesh beneath, but didn’t realize how remarkable both aspects were alone and in compliment.

His edges were so sharp, it was easy to assume he was all self-sufficiency and cold, menacing steel, through and through. Anders had assumed exactly that - and it had kept him at a distance, at least at first, as it was intended to. He had, of course, grown to like the stability and confidence the warrior projected, but there was so much concealed beneath that mask. Even more than the stoic shell, he was absolutely enamored with the hidden depths, the humor and playfulness, those remarkable analytical skills he could turn on a person as easily as a battle. His capacity for tenderness. His creativity and utter shamelessness in the bedroom. That insatiable curiosity.

All the things that no one got to see but Anders. All the vulnerable places, things he didn't excise, but merely swathed in armor to protect from casual cruelty. Anders was captivated by all of it. It made him relatable, and made Anders feel like there might be room for him, like he might be able to fill in the gaps where Fenris’s armor wasn’t sufficient.

And, with disorienting speed and astonishing clarity, his perception shifted. For the first time, it felt like Anders wasn’t facing off with Fenris, or waiting for the other shoe to drop, or waiting for Fenris to change his mind and decide he wasn’t worth it.

It felt like they were on the same side. They both felt things that weren't subject to reason.

 _I’ve been looking for the wrong thing this whole time._ He didn’t need reassurances - he needed to understand that Fenris felt something for him and was just as confused by it as he was. Oh, it was so much better than the flimsy pretense of the curse and bodyguard business that had brought them together. It was something he could believe in, something real.

Oh.

In tandem with the realization, a heady wave of gratitude washed over him. _Fenris cares_.

Of course he did. His actions attested to that at every turn.

_Fool mage indeed. The man has saved my life twice now, has listened to me and taught me and made room in his house - no, his entire life for me. It wasn’t just a pretext, and it wasn’t just amazing sex that brought him down into the tunnels. Why did I need to hear the words to believe it?_

It was true; Fenris had been consistently proving it for months, in ways and to a degree Anders had never experienced before. Anyone who thought the warrior was callous or cold could fuck right off, because when Fenris cared, he cared more than anyone.

“It’s…really nice to hear the words out loud, and I don’t know why. But, you know what? I think the point of this argument was to realize it’s not an argument. We’re a team. That’s all I need.”

“Until your next crisis of faith, no doubt,” Fenris grumbled, taking another long drink of wine.

Anders’ eyes widened. That sly bastard; he knew too much. He must have realized that moments of insecurity were a common occurrence in Anders’ life. That he could casually announce he was braced for the next time… Anders felt the enamored smile creep over his face. “You’re a little unpredictable, aren’t you?”

Fenris chuckled, an incongruously warm and easy sound that seemed to relieve some of the pent-up tension that had pervaded the room. “Perhaps. If only you were better at reading minds.” He took a step forward, offering Anders the bottle of wine, and added in a speculative tone, “This… issue, with the demon. It is not insurmountable.”

Anders’ eyes fell to the bottle, and to the fingers wrapped about the smooth glass neck. Fenris’s hands were beautiful. Powerful, nimble, and elegant. And scarred. Scars from brands and cuts and carelessness and callouses and cruelties. They could have been anything, once – the hands of a musician, or scholar, or craftsman - but they were now, plainly, the hands of a warrior.

He reached out for the bottle, but his hand had a mind of its own, wrapping instead around those strong, clever fingers. He felt hypnotized by the contrasts; rough bronze skin wrapped around the neck of the smooth, dark green bottle, and, in turn, swathed in his own long, pale fingers.

He stood slowly, closing the distance and pressing in, until the glass was all that separated them. Almost reluctantly, his gaze left the warrior’s hands and drifted upwards to meet inscrutable green eyes. He leaned forward, moving slowly, deliberately, providing ample opportunity for Fenris to pull away.

Fenris didn’t pull away. He watched, his expression open and maybe a little amused, as Anders pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his upper lip. Anders pulled back a few inches, his eyes searching for signs of discomfort. At this, the warrior made a small, impatient noise and turned. Before Anders could feel the pang of disappointment, the warrior set the wine bottle on the table and immediately resumed his position, settling with his chest against Anders’ and gripping him lightly at the waist.

Anders, miraculously, stopped thinking. He dipped his head down. Fenris was already leaning up to meet him partway, and it wasn’t a metaphor for anything because Anders couldn’t think of anything except the intoxicating caress of Fenris’s lips, warm and dry and slightly rough at the edges, the brush of his warm breath, the tang of red wine on his lips.

His hands rose, seemingly of their own volition, to lightly rest around the sides of Fenris’s neck. Soon they were sliding up, over the jut of his prominent jaw and the long blades of his ears to cradle his head. His fingers splayed along cheeks and jaw and into impossibly soft hair, holding him lightly, like a something fragile and sacred. A faint groan fell from his lips when Fenris mirrored the motion. Those rough hands on his cheeks, the gentle reverence inherent in holding a lover’s face – the electricity put his magic tricks to shame. 

Fenris tilted his head down a hair, surrounding Anders’ lower lip and sucking lightly before tilting to the side and devouring his mouth with an uncanny skill.

Anders' breathing went right to hell, because, Void take him, Fenris was an exceptionally talented kisser. He was slow, purposeful, meticulous; the kiss was heated but not urgent, sensual without needing to lead anywhere. Anders never wanted to stop, luxuriating in the other man as he had only once before. The most he could hope for was to hold on and try to communicate the depth of this vast, swirling sea of emotions though the one million nerve endings in Fenris’s lips.

And then he felt Fenris licking his way into his mouth, and, _oh hell,_ it sent shivers down his spine, pulled soft noises from his throat. He felt Fenris’s arms drop, his hands traveling lightly up and down Anders’ sides, and had to pull back slightly to catch his breath.

But such a thing was fool’s errand; how could he catch his breath with the heat of Fenris’s lips pressing open-mouthed kisses on his neck, the torturous graze of fingers up and down his sides? It was futile to try.

So, instead, he claimed any territory his mouth could reach; lingering, greedy kisses to the warrior’s cheek, across his brow, against his hairline, his temple. Anders was slowly disintegrating under the sensory assault and was achingly aware of the warrior’s every movement.

When Fenris leaned up to capture his lips again, he immediately dipped down to meet him; Fenris’s nose bumped off Anders’ once and he pulled back with a surprised chuckle, only to meet Anders’ lips once more with a contented sigh. Time stretched without regard; Anders has never been kissed so thoroughly before, or enjoyed the plundering of mouths to such an extent. The room was silent, save for a near-constant stream of gravelly, low groans and soft, helpless hums and moans; sounds of dissolution, of surrender, of rhapsody.

It lasted forever and not nearly long enough, but at some point Fenris pulled back. He stood close, head tipped down, panting shallowly into the silent room. 

“That,” Anders said, flushed and breathless, “was terrible.”

It was a sign of how dazed the warrior was that he didn’t sound even remotely offended when he responded with a laugh and a gravelly, “Excuse me?”

Anders laughed in return, dizzy, kiss drunk. “Just terrible. We clearly need practice. Lots and lots of practice.”

Fenris hummed something that might have been a laugh. When he looked up, there was a glint of steel in his eye, a slight tremble apparent as he clenched his fists. And, _Maker_ , it was a beautiful sight to see Fenris riled, unwound, fighting for control. He lingered for a few unsteady breaths, re-asserting that iron discipline, and then pressed a chaste kiss to Anders’ lips. “I would like that.” Anders could hear the arousal in his voice, purring up from the base of his throat. He grinned against Anders’ mouth – Anders could feel the wryness of the grin without even having to see it – and pulled back to announce, “First, I have two things to show you.” 

…

Anders’ heart was pounding, sweat beading across his brow despite the cool night air; he had stoked a fire in the hearth when Fenris escorted them into Anders’ room, but it hadn’t yet managed to overpower the drafty chill that penetrated the mansion’s stone walls. It was for the best; he felt overheated, like he had just sprinted up Sundermount’s summit.

His eyes darted up, meeting the expectant stare of shadowed green eyes.

“You’ve read this already?”

“Some of it. The two entries on spirits, and some of the account of the Alamarri tribe.”

“Damnit all! Fenris, this entry on Kirkwall… this is… Maferath’s hairy arse, I can’t believe I forgot about the flute. How did Feynriel even find all this stuff?” Anders stood, abandoning the gruesome codex entries to pace the room for a moment.

“Mage?”

It took him a moment to register the voice, low and soothing.

“Anders? I believe we have established that there are certain mindsets you need to avoid.”

That registered. Anders stilled, but he couldn’t seem to shake the nervous energy that consumed him.

“Come here,” the velvety baritone was gruff and commanding, but it was accompanied by a pat on the bed that amended the words into a paradoxically cute, calm invitation. 

Anders felt himself take a few steps to where the warrior sat perched on his bed. He paused, returned to the desk to collect the small, furled stack of parchment. He then returned and sank to the ground between Fenris’s legs, holding the documents up so the warrior could read over his shoulder. He absentmindedly wove a small sphere of the green, heatless flame and set it hovering a few feet above them to illuminate the writing, and then proceeded to read aloud the entirety of the codex titled “Enigma of Kirkwall”.

By the time he finished, his stomach was churning and his chest felt tight. “Maker, Fenris. I… I don’t even know what to do with this information.”

Warm, strong fingers slid over his shoulder. It startled him, a little; to be physically touched while distressed… it was a rare thing, in his experience, and precious. Almost immediately, he felt himself relax into the touch, tilting his head to lean against Fenris’s left knee.

“It’s maddening, really. These notes explain so much and… absolutely nothing at the same time. The abnormal rates of maleficarum, the tunnel under the mansion… what were the damn fools thinking, deliberately weakening an already thin Veil? It makes no sense! And what did they come here for in the first place? And… oh, _Maker,_ the blood…”

Fenris’s right hand smoothed down his arms, then trailed back up, applying light pressure to the knot that was forming in his biceps and trapezius. “I do not know, but it is worrisome. Do you intend to return to the tunnels?”

Anders craned his head back, looking up at the warrior’s expression for any indication of reticence. But Fenris just looked back calmly, his hand still tracing idle patterns up his arm and kneading lightly on the way back down. He sighed, head falling back to the warrior’s knee. “I don’t know. I want to. This alone isn’t proof – who the hell are these people, anyways? It could be the delusions of a madman…”

“Except we know the tunnels are real. From the sound of it, we found you in the quarters of these ‘researchers’.”

“Perhaps there’s something down there that can prove that Kirkwall is harming mages – making them turn to blood magic, fail their Harrowings. This might be the very thing to end the Gallows Circle. Or maybe I can do something about it – about the Veil, or the lingering blood magic.” He took a shaky breath, then forced himself to ask, “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

Fenris didn’t reply right away, but his hand continued to trace soothing nonsense patterns over Anders’ arm. At length, he leaned down, his head in the crook of Anders’ right shoulder, and lifted his left arm awkwardly around Ander’s leaning head to point at a specific passage. “But we've discovered the Magisters were deliberately thinning it even further. Beneath the city, demons can contact even normal men.”

A long pause ensued as both men considered the weight of those words. Eventually, Fenris asked, “Do you think it worth the risk?”

Anders gave the question due consideration. At some point, Fenris dropped the hand away from the text and rested it against Anders’ chest. Anders reached up to cover it with his own. “I do. I mean, I don’t know – I understand the issue with Justice a little better now, and understanding is the key to control. But, like I said, we’re a team. If you don’t want to go back, knowing what we know now, I’ll drop it.”

Fenris didn’t hesitate. “I trust your judgement. What about Hawke, or the others?”

“I think we could use all the help we can get, but… is this is something we want everyone to know about?” He paused to consider it, his thumb rubbing idly over the back of Fenris’s knuckles. “With all the tension in the city, I’d not be surprised if Meredith did something drastic, if she found out. She’d find a way to twist it, to blame the mages, or incite a riot. I just don’t know, Fenris. What do you think?” He tilted his head further, absentmindedly grazing his stubbled cheek lightly back and forth against the warrior’s arm.

“I do not believe any of Hawke’s crew would allow this information to reach the Knight Commander.”

Anders nodded into the smooth skin of Fenris’s elbow, then murmured, “Alright. In the morning?”

Fenris hummed in agreement. His right hand continued stroking light, soothing trails up and down his arm, and Anders felt himself leaning into every point of contact. Wrapped up between the warrior’s knees, a tender caress on his arm and a steady pressure on his chest, Anders felt absurdly calm about the entire situation.

“Do you crave more of this?” Fenris asked.

“Huh?”

“This,” Fenris said, his right hand coming to rest and squeezing his arm for emphasis. “Do you enjoy this much physical contact?” The question was bald and blunt, as Fenris’s words almost always were, but the warrior’s rich, gritty baritone somehow rounded out the edges into a guileless inquiry.

Anders could only manage a small nod against Fenris’s arm. It was embarrassing to admit how much he enjoyed it; how sensitized he was to the casual affection, how awed he was by the warrior’s capacity for gentleness, how hard it was to find it at any other point in his life. It seemed like a relic of his childhood, to have people touch him with tenderness. Fenris was right the first time; he didn’t enjoy it, he _craved_ it.

Silence stretched around them; Anders braced himself for any number of responses.

“That is…alright. This. This is acceptable.”

Anders leaned back, resting his head in Fenris’s lap with a grin that probably looked as silly as it felt. “Just ‘acceptable’? I mean, please do let me know if touching me becomes too much of a burden.”

Fenris rolled his eyes; Anders couldn’t see it, but he was pretty certain that an eyeroll had occurred. “Do not be coy. It is not that I – hmph. I enjoy touching you. Like this. But, it is… complicated.”

Anders hummed. _Isn’t everything?_ “Do you wanna tell me about it?”

A pause. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“Just to be clear… I care about you, too. I care a lot.”

Fenris grew still.

“Thank you. I suppose the words do matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events immediately following Anders’ joining with Justice were described in [the short story](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Anders_\(short_story\)), and that’s where I’m getting my information from when speculating that the corruption of Justice began immediately upon joining. There’s nothing in canon that insists on a spirit/demon dichotomy, so I’m treating it like a spectrum that changes based on the spirit’s environment. One of several inspirations for this idea of a Justice-Vengeance spectrum is the fact that Anders casts Vengeance in Night Terrors (even if he hasn’t learned that spell), but outside the Fade he approves if a rival/non-romance Hawke tells him ‘you have to control it’. 
> 
> So… 100k words in, and the boys finally made it through enough increasingly honest iterations of their own issues to get to ‘of course I care, dummy’. I really wanted my beloved idiots to be a secure team much, much earlier than this, but apparently they had other plans. The exact nature of their caring/partnership will continue to evolve, as these things do, but this is a milestone!! Yay Fenders! I also think a lot of my own obsession with Fenris snuck into this chapter, so… well, there’s that.
> 
> In other news… fucking [sea shanties](https://www.tiktok.com/tag/wellerman?is_copy_url=0&is_from_webapp=v2&sender_device=pc&sender_web_id=6905778658125923846). I’ve had this earworm for two weeks now, and I’m a little bit in love with Nathan Evans (in that I would bugger him into the floor). Who knew my strange love of folk music, all things Scottish, and a long-held admiration of a capella music would all be captured in a viral TikTok trend. The world is odd.


	27. Engima - Descent

Moonlight poured through the western windows as Satina descended towards the horizon. It was still an hour or more before the dove-grey twilight would spread through the city, but Anders was wide awake.

He rested on his back, schooling his breathing into something quiet and shallow so as not to disturb the warrior beside him.

Well, beside was… not exactly the right word. It was rather more like being buried in the warm, dense musculature of a bed-hogging octopus. Fenris was sprawled on his right side, facing Anders, limbs splayed all around him – right arm beneath the curve of Anders’ neck, the other flung across his abdomen. The bony patella of the warrior’s right knee jutted beneath his thigh, and the elf’s long left thigh stretched across Anders’s lap and then bent at the knee so his ankle and foot could tuck beneath Anders’ calf. Fenris’s head rested on his chest, all dead weight and warm breath.

It was smothering, and it was magnificent.

For reasons mercurial and unknowable, Anders felt clear-headed and focused; he shouldn’t be, not at this hour, and not with the stifling heat and weight compressing him from all sides, but the truth was self-evident.

Never one to waste an opportunity, he let his mind percolate on the mysterious Band of Three and their upcoming journey down to the bowels of Kirkwall.

Caution and control would be paramount, so he walked himself through the mental exercises that comprised his early training at Kinloch, tweaking them with his newfound understanding of the spirit inside him. Instead of simply segregating his emotional context from his thoughts, as the Circle trained, he filled the exercises with a litany of justice; it was surprising, and gratifying, to realize how many memories he had that fit the criteria. Whatever failures and unfinished business remained, his time at the clinic and working with Hawke had not been a waste.

Once he was satisfied with the regimen, confident that it would both nurture Justice and keep him detached from the insidious whispers of whatever demons pressed against the thinning Veil beneath Kirkwall, his thoughts turned to tactics. The _Enigma_ implied that blood mages were protecting something in the tunnels, but that wasn’t anything new for Hawke & Company. Still - there were a lot of unknowns.

A slight shuffle distracted him. He looked down at the chaotic splash of downy white hair arrayed in a messy halo across his chest. His heart clenched with wordless affection, gratitude that bordered on awe. _The way you sleep. That needs to go on the list._ When Fenris was awake, he was all discipline and focus and singular control of his actions and appearance. Fenris asleep was the polar opposite: soft and open, carelessly messy.

“I’m a lucky man,” he murmured softly. He wasn’t entirely aware he’d said it out loud until Fenris stirred. Anders stomach clenched as he lifted his shoulders up, pressing a fond kiss to the top of the warrior’s head before slowly extricating himself from the pile of limbs.

* * *

The warmth suffusing his belly seemed to yield compounding interest when combined with their pre-dawn Idos training. Fenris called it quits after only three repetitions, after which they shared a hearty breakfast of eggs, biscuits and salt pork as the sun began to paint the sky with dawn colors.

“So, I was thinking,” he said, swallowing his last bite of biscuit. “About how to approach this. We could start with the other staircase, but it seems like a waste of time given that we already know there’s a bucketload of mystery down the one we used before. And I’d like to check the desks in the wing where you guys found me – as you pointed out, there might be research there. And you mentioned something about a set of keys?”

Fenris perked up. “Yes, I had forgotten. Come with me. I had two things I wanted to show you last night.”

Anders followed Fenris up the stairs and into his room, where the warrior rifled around in a desk drawer until he produced a large keyring with two ornate, matching bronze keys. Anders took a closer look; they really did look ‘fancy’ enough to belong to the embellished lock they had seen in the antechamber.

He suddenly recalled what Fenris had said about the scribbles on his manifesto being similar to the ones Vengeance had produced in the tunnels; he leaned down to retrieve his manifesto from the sneaky little drawer tucked into the side of the desk. He patted around for a moment, then ducked down to look. When he stood up, he eyed the desk accusingly, convinced it was hiding something from him. Then he turned plaintively to Fenris. “Did you… do… something to the desk? I used to keep my manifesto in a drawer somewhere down there.”

Fenris stared at him, perplexed.

“Why are you looking at me like I just started speaking in Ciriane?”

Fenris reached maximum perplexity. “Speaking… what?”

“Ciriane. I don’t know, it was the most arbitrary language I could think of.”

“You… you think I somehow removed a hidden drawer from your desk?”

“Well, I don’t know! I can’t find the drawer…”

“Mage,” Fenris began, but his lips pressed into a hard line, then curled inward. _Is he… he’s laughing at me!_ This was confirmed after a snort and a pause, followed by another, longer snort of barely contained mirth. “Mage, this is not your desk. I replaced it with the desk from the third bedroom. Yours was… damaged.”

“Damaged?”

“How did you not notice?”

“I don’t know! It’s all just…furnishing. Who pays attention to the furniture?”

“You have used it near daily for months now… that does not grant you a passing familiarity? This isn’t even the same kind of desk. They looked nothing alike.” Fenris was still trying to contain his amusement, and Anders relented; it was hardly a secret that he could be oblivious about certain things, and clearly Fenris was trying to be playful, not hurtful.

“I guess not. Huh. I’m glad you replaced it with another desk, and not, like, a bed of nails or something.” He grinned when Fenris broke into another fit of snorting giggles, charmed by the way Fenris’s mouth twisted when he was trying to suppress the laughter.

“Tell me, honestly, would you have noticed if the situation were reversed?”

“As a bodyguard, situational assessment was a significant part of my job, so, yes. Most likely.” Anders made a mental note to test that theory in the future, then gave a dramatic sigh. “All right, so, that can go on the list of things you’re better at than me.” _Which is really… everything except magic._ “But I believe you wanted to show me something?”

Fenris sobered somewhat, turning to one of the myriad trunks that had been stacked in a corner of the room and completely ignored since he had moved in. The warrior twisted the latch on the nearest trunk, lifted the lid, and then looked up at Anders. “Close your eyes.” _Does he sound nervous? Shit, anything that makes Fenris nervous is probably just this side of apocalyptic._

With great trepidation, Anders complied. He heard some rustling, then startled when Fenris’s voice whispered “Open,” immediately next to him. _Damn sneaky elves and their damn silent footsteps._

Anders opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and summarily forgot how to speak. “Where… how did…” He gaped, eyes roaming over fine, jet fabric and sleek feathers. “A robe? Where did it come from? Is… for me? How…?”

When he glanced to the side, Fenris was watching him with a strange jumble of excitement and worry openly parading across his face. His voice, however, was entirely neutral as he answered simply, “It came from Jean Luc, the tailor.”

“Did you…?”

“Yes.”

“How…?”

“I brought your tattered robes for measurements.”

“Black?”

“It is stealthy.” Fenris huffed, then added, “And you look good in black.”

Anders felt a full-body blush coming on. “So… let me just… you had new robes made to my measurements in a color that is both stealthy and flattering.”

Fenris looked down. “Yes.”

Anders’ body didn’t feel large enough to contain the devastating affection that welled up in him. “Andraste’s lily-white ass, this is… I can’t even…” He dove at Fenris, wrapping him in a bone-crunching bear hug, but had to pull back when his dastardly hands roamed lower than was strictly necessary for a thank-you hug.

“I don’t know what to say. I.. just… thank you. Thank you, Fenris. No one has ever given me a present like this. I mean, nothing like this. I…” he trailed off when he saw the warrior’s expression light up, the nerves banished; a lump in his throat prevented further conversation.

“You are welcome. Your old attire was falling apart. The loss of one more seam posed public indecency risks.”

Anders was going to make a fool of himself if he tried to respond to that, so he instead tipped his head down to kiss the unpredictable elf senseless.

Some time had passed before they stumbled apart, and significant willpower was exerted to keep from diving in for round two at the sight of Fenris looking thoroughly debauched with flushed cheeks and reddened lips. “You set a high bar… I can’t even imagine what kind of gift I could find you that could top this, but I’ll think of something.”

A wry grin stole across Fenris’s lips, but the look he shot Anders was heated. “For now… try it on.”

“Oh, gladly,” Anders replied, shucking off his threadbare tunic and reaching for the finely woven ebony replacement. “One question… will you be offended if I wear the old one for the tunnels?” At Fenris’s frown, he rushed to add, “It’s just that… this is silly, but I’d rather debut this precious gift in the sunlight. I don’t want the first time I wear this to be overshadowed by blood magic and Maker knows what else…”

A slow smile crept across Fenris’s face. “I would not be offended, no.”

* * *

“Damnit, you two, remember when we agreed not to tell Hawke? Explain to me then why we’re telling _everybody.”_ Izzy was pouting in a corner of Varric’s suite, cleaning under her nails with the point of a dagger, while the rest of the gang looked on with a shared expression of incredulity. Thus far, their pitch to investigate the tunnels beneath Kirkwall was not going particularly well.

“So, let me get this straight. Our previous experience with the Deep Roads wasn’t enough for you? Getting left for dead in a crypt, nearly dying, and discovering a demonic red lyrium idol - that wasn’t a sign that we should maybe stay above ground? You want to go _back_ underground, into some evil Tevinter lair?”

“I’m with Varric. I’m not sure what good can come from this, Hawke.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but we should listen to Man Hands.”

“Wow, Rivaini and the Captain are in agreement? This is a sign. You know that, don’t you?” 

“I think it sounds exciting. Doesn’t it sound exciting, Hawke?”

Varric snorted. “Daisy, you think the sewers are exciting. Why don’t we all just go loot the sewers and call it a day?”

“It sounds like a shit show, but… what was that bit about priceless tomes and a cache of Tevinter relics?” Hawke, at least, sounded intrigued.

“I don’t think there’s anything to loot in the sewers, Varric. Mostly it’s just rats, and they always look so cross.”

Anders stood quietly near Varric’s bookshelves, his head down, as the crew debated in their own signature fashion; banter, insults and the occasional valid point - all overlapping, with side conversation splitting off and rejoining the main discussion. The near-unanimous skepticism was a little discouraging, but he had anticipated some reticence, and was more than prepared to do a little persuading.

Before he got a chance, Fenris stepped forward from his self-appointed position guarding the doorway. “The fourth entry in that folio clearly points to valuable items to be salvaged. Moreover, you should each consider how well you will sleep tonight knowing that, beneath your feet, there are unexplored caverns that may be concealing unknown evils with access to unfathomable quantities of blood and ancient Tevinter research.” Mildly, as if it were an afterthought, he added, “Who knows where those tunnels lead. The guard barracks? The Alienage? Right here, beneath the Hanged Man?”

Varric paled. “Maker’s breath, Broody – I may never sleep again. Everyone thank Broody when I start to get cranky from sleep deprivation.”

“The elf raises a good point – we should at least investigate where these tunnels lead. It could be a security threat if they permit access to the surface.” Aveline was giving Fenris an appraising look, as if she’d never really noticed him before. _Damn right, Aveline. He’s amazing._

“Seriously, Varric? No one will be able to tell the difference - unless you’re just always sleep deprived. Actually, that would explain a lot.” Izzy grinned fondly at the dwarf as she said it, but he didn’t get a chance to return the ribbing as Merrill cut in, “Oh goodness, that’s very true, isn’t it? Anytime we leave Hightown, it’s nothing but ‘Can we leave now? Can we never come here again? This place smells like old cabbage. Why does this place always smell? This is the most wretched place I’ve ever been. Why do we keep coming here?”

Hawke’s laughter seemed to give everyone else permission, and surprised giggles filled the room. “Damn, Merrill – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you make fun of someone. You should do it more often.”

“Yeah, Daisy, tell us what you think of our fearless leader over there…” Varric grumbled. Merrill seemed preoccupied with blushing furiously at the rare compliment from Hawke.

“Or we could get back to the matter at hand…” Hawke deflected.

“We should be cautious. We know nothing about this ‘Band of Three’. Just because some of the writing has been verified doesn’t mean we can trust the entire folio. It could all be an elaborate trap, for all we know.” Aveline couldn’t have known, but she had voiced one of Anders’ many fears. Feynriel’s appearance in his dream, and the gifted manuscripts; it all seemed extraordinarily generous, and that immediately made him suspicious.

All the warmth from the previous evening and the lighthearted banter had kept his mind off the enormity of the mission ahead. Truthfully, he had no idea if it was wise to investigate, because it could be a trap – or it could be much worse. Just as he felt his shoulders droop a little under the grim weight of reality, he felt a hand settle at the small of his back; of course he hadn’t heard the warrior approach, but _damn,_ it was a pleasant surprise.

“You have that look. Doubts?” Fenris’s words were pitched low, behind and slightly to Anders’ right. _What look? And how did he see it from back there?_

“Not exactly. Just… unknowns.”

Fenris nodded. “Caution is advisable, but unknowns can only be rectified with knowledge.”

Anders turned his head slightly so Fenris could see his smile. “Has anyone told you that you’re cute when you’re pithy?”

“No. ‘Cute’ is not frequently said in reference to me at all, as most people are not entirely bereft of self-preservation instincts.”

Anders was trying to decide if the warrior’s expression was more annoyed or pleased when he realized the banter around them had quieted. In fact, the room was utterly silent. Apparently, the two of them with their heads together, whispering and smiling, had rendered the gang mute.

 _Oh, that’s right. We’re supposed to be bitter rivals._ Anders couldn’t help it. A giggle forced its way past his lips - hearty and - well, happy. “What? You’ve never seen two men talking before?”

“Not _you_ two!” Aveline spluttered. She looked around the room for validation, but found that only Merrill seemed to share her incredulity. Hawke’s eyebrow was raised, her face pensive as if considering any possible ramifications on group dynamics, while Izzy just looked a little aroused. Varric’s expression was pure vindication.

“I had my suspicions. You know, there’s a whole bunch of spare rooms down the hall if you’d rather ogle each other in private…”

“Shut it, Varric,” Izzy hissed. “Ogle away, boys. Or, you know, grope, fondle, whatever really.” Her voice shifted dramatically from irritation at Varric to a study in airy nonchalance.

“Oh, did I miss something dirty? Do you two pretend to hate each other so it’s more passionate when you… well, you know. Because I don’t think that is a healthy relationship dynamic.”

“No, Daisy, it’s not a dirty roleplay fetish – it’s the stuff of romance novels everywhere. Star-crossed lovers and all of that.” 

Anders paled. “Varric, I swear, if you’re planning out a romance novel right now…”

“Who’s to say I haven’t already?”

“This is nothing like the stories,” Aveline said sadly. “For one thing - who is supposed to sweep who off their feet? Anders is taller, but Fenris is undoubtedly more masculine.”

“Hey!”

“There was no sweeping involved.” Fenris said calmly. “Now, perhaps everyone can process their feelings at a later date, as I believe there is a mission to plan.”

“Fine,” Anders grumbled. “But for the record, I’m plenty masculine.” Fenris nodded helpfully.

“You heard the man – you can all revert back to salacious curs on the way. I hear there are plenty of stairs, tight corridors, no escape routes.” Hawke got a gleam in her eye, a spark of exhilaration that only appeared right before they set off on a dangerous mission. “Pack up, gang – we don’t know how long this will take, so be prepared for a long haul. Meet up at Fenris’s mansion at noon. It’s time for some investigative spelunking.”

* * *

Anders realized his mistake very quickly, but not soon enough. He did, of course, try not to stare at Fenris’s ass, but the monotony of interminable steps meant that the warrior in front of him was not just the only thing to look at, but by far the most interesting part of the journey. By the time he realized he should have insisted he go in front, it was too late – the staircase was too narrow to swap places now. _It’s going to be an uncomfortable descent,_ Anders bemoaned silently while adjusting his britches.

Behind him, Hawke and Izzy were engaged in some sort of muted discussion that he couldn’t hear much of over the animated debate between Varric and Aveline regarding one ‘Donnen Brennicovick’ of _Hard in Hightown_ fame. Merrill was stuck between both conversations, humming to herself cheerfully.

“You are staring.”

“Wh… How, Fenris? How could you possibly know that?”

“Because you are not talking.” The warrior turned his head back, confirming his suspicions with a wry smirk.

“Well, serves you right for wearing skin-tight britches.”

“This is the only uniform that will remain in place when I activate my brands. You would prefer I fight naked?”

“Is that a serious question?”

Fenris huffed, the sharp exhale he made when he was genuinely amused. _I need to name the different huffs, somehow. There’s the laugh huff, the angry huff, the ‘we are done here’ huff, OH, and the snorts!_

Remembering the topic at hand, he continued, “Besides, it’s not only the tight britches – every time you take a step, your sword just kinda… lightly pats you on the backside. I think I’m jealous.”

Fenris snorted. “If you were to take its place in your current state, I would be getting more than a pat with each step.”

Anders swallowed at the mental image, wondering if that were even possible, and once again adjusted his britches. “The mouth on you…”

“Are you jealous of that too?” Fenris asked, elbowing Anders lightly in the hip before unhooking his waterskin from his pouch.

Anders only grinned. _My mouth on you would be better._ Instead of voicing that thought, however, he waited until the warrior uncorked and lifted the waterskin, then gave him a little shove.

Fenris spluttered as the water splashed off his forehead. He turned and put Anders in a sideways headlock so fast that Anders didn’t even have time to yelp in surprise. Raucous laughter and impatient protests burst from the group behind him in equal measure, but Fenris ignored them, leaning his head down to Anders’ ear. “You are asking for trouble.”

Anders struggled indignantly against the warrior’s vise-like forearm for a moment, but Fenris’s hold was solid. He briefly considered pushing forward to overbalance the warrior, but the sharp edges of Fenris’s gauntlets were precariously close to his face, and the thought of tumbling down a seemingly infinite staircase wasn’t particularly appealing. Before he could plot any further, Fenris relaxed his hold and casually raised his waterskin, pouring a measure over Anders’ head.

Anders’ laugh, warm and easy, took him by surprise. It was honestly just another endearing thing about Fenris – he held all the power; he could have easily chosen to escalate their roughhousing, but had instead just evened the score.

“All right you two, can you save it for a time when others don’t have to wait for your strange little courting ritual? We will be of more use to the city on the surface, so let’s not extend this expedition any more than necessary.” Aveline’s tone caused both men to straighten and resume walking, though the playful pushing and shoving continued.

A short time later, after devising and throwing out several plans, Anders finally enacted his revenge. He closed the scant distance between himself and the warrior, leaning in to murmur, “Not asking for trouble. Begging.”

He trailed his fingers lightly over the warrior’s hip, then casually dropped back a pace or so.

_At least I don’t have to be the only one walking funny._

* * *

“Damnit! It’s too big.”

“Are you certain? It looks like it will fit. Here, let me try.”

Anders huffed. “You think this is my first time using a key? I had my hopes up too, but really – what are the odds that these mysterious, arbitrary keys from the mansion would open this specific lock?”

Fenris shrugged. “What are the odds a city elf would choose to gift you a folio of notes made by a mysterious group investigating tunnels that happen to connect to a secret room in your current residence? Improbable things happen frequently in this city.”

“Huh. I… guess you have a point there. Although, it still feels like there’s some kind of magic involved. Hey, Izzy? Could you poke around and see if there’s another one of those orb-lock thingies on this door?”

Izzy stepped forward to investigate, and at the same time, Hawke pushed off the wall she had been leaning against and straightened. “Well, lovelies. While our favorite pirate captain works her magic, let’s plan this out a little. First order of business is the fancy door, and then it appears we have three corridors. Conveniently, we also have three warriors. Izzy and I will head left, Anders and Fenris go back the way we came in, and Aveline, Merrill and Varric take the right. That’s the one with the massive pit, yeah?” Anders nodded. “So, it goes without saying, you three aren’t to go exploring the pit of doom without us, okay? Just loot your corridor and meet back here when you’re done.”

“And be careful with any research you find!” Anders added hastily. He was quite certain any manuscripts down here would be ancient. “And, it goes without saying, don’t fiddle with anything that looks like a Tevinter torture device.”

“Yeah, just grab whatever you find and bring it back here. Everyone got spare torches and chalk?”

A round of nods.

“I made enough wirium vials for everyone to get one, but they’ll only last about a day once we take them out of the rune box, so I suggest we hold off until they’re needed.”

More nodding.

“Aha!”

Everyone spun to Izzy, who was triumphantly digging at a stone on the left side of the door frame. “I got a loose one. Bring your magic balls over here, Sparkle Fingers.”

“Ball. Singular,” Anders corrected futilely.

Just as he was pulling the canvas-wrapped crystal out of his satchel, a faint gritty, grinding noise echoed through the small antechamber. Izzy stood triumphantly over the excavated mechanism. Just like in the Idos room, the exposed brick had a hollow indentation in the center. “I don’t get it - I can’t really imagine any fancy Tevinter folks running around with daggers to pry open the locking mechanism.”

Izzy nodded contemplatively. “Yeah, you’d think there would be some kind of gold-plated button, or at least a spell or something.”

“You mean like this?” Merrill chirped, waving a hand over an ordinary-looking tile.

Grinding noises, hundreds of times louder than the brick Izzy had dug out, echoed through the chamber; Anders couldn’t locate the source, as it sounded like it was coming from all around them.

“Blood and bloody ashes, Daisy, what did you just do?” Varric moaned.

“Oh, goodness, that sounded like it worked much better than I anticipated. There’s a little rune, here, in the stone. I just touched it with my magic and –“

Anders stepped up beside Merrill. “Wait, what? I didn’t see that rune until just now, and don’t feel anything there – how did you sense the rune?”

“Oh…” Merrill fidgeted nervously. “I suppose it’s probably blood magic. Tevinter has quite a reputation for blood magic, doesn’t it?”

“Of course the bloody Vints use bloody blood magic to open doors. Why am I not surprised,” Hawke sighed.

“So, what, it was just assumed that anyone using these tunnels was a blood mage?” Izzy asked.

“No, that’s what these orbs are for I bet. It makes sense – anyone who wasn’t a mage would be of little import, so they would have to search for the mechanism. And anyone who was a mage would obviously be using blood magic,” Anders replied, thoughtful and a little sad.

“Oh, look, the door is open,” Merrill said, pointing.

And it was. The so-called ‘fancy door’ had apparently been released from its lock, now hanging freely and cracked inward a hair.

Hawke took the lead, striding up to the door with a ‘hold onto your britches’ expression. In typical Hawke fashion, she drew her blade and rammed the door with her shoulder simultaneously, striding into the room like the door was merely a peasant in the path of a runaway carriage. Anders immediately wove a globe of light, that eerie green heatless flame, to light her path. Fenris beat him to the door, so he followed close on the heels of the two warriors.

“Makers breath…” Hawke breathed.

“What the fuck?” Anders blurted.

“Oh – creators, what is that thing?” Merrill squeaked.

The room was lavish – the antithesis of the stark, bare rooms of the corridor. A crimson carpet with black borders and gold filigree spanned the length of the room; tapestries hung from ornately inlaid walls, and elaborately carved geometric chairs of jet and gold were spaced at even intervals along the sides of the room.

The real show-stopper, however, was a large basin in the center of the room. It was supported by a statue of a golden dragon, its wings wrapped possessively around the large golden bowl. Above it, four delicate golden half-pipes were suspended from the ceiling; they met in a funnel at the center, one stretching from each corner of the room.

Anders approached the nearest corner. “ _Maker._ Take a look at this - it's a pulley system, like a pump." 

“That’s an elm tree pump. All sailing ships have something exactly like that to empty out the bilge – you turn the wheel and bring up little buckets on a pulley,” Izzy said softly. “So, each corner has a pump, and it all drains into that creepy dragon bowl. Question is, what was being pumped in?”

“Oh, I think we can take a reasonable guess,” Anders said grimly. “We’ve got a floor entirely comprised of rooms with beds or desks, and a folio that describes hundreds of Tevinter mages conducting secret research down here. Why turn the knife on themselves if they have access to a damned ocean of blood?”

“So, what, you think this is like, a fucked-up blood magic bank? Just, take out a loan when you have something to research?” Hawke sounded incredulous.

“It would make sense. Although, if the notes are accurate, that is likely the smallest fraction of the uses for this ‘lake of blood.” Fenris’s tone was flat, his expression blank. Anders took a step towards him, worried, but halted when he realized the warrior would likely not appreciate being coddled in front of the others.

“What is that?” Aveline asked, pointing to a large furnishing against the far wall. Anders had initially assumed it was part of the architecture, but on closer examination, it looked like a series of obsidian hexagonal chests stacked in a honeycomb pattern. “Storage of some kind? I’m not sure how to open them, though – there’s no obvious latches.” He looked over his shoulder, and made use of the distraction the chests provided to weave a hasty barrier over Fenris. “Merrill? Any chance you can…?” he waggled his fingers vaguely at the chests.

“Oh right… erm, let me take a look-see.”

Sure enough, a quick gesture by Merrill caused the front of the nearest four containers to swing open on silent hinges. One held a few coins, and another had a small golden statue; nothing of particular interest to Anders.

He left the gang to their looting and perused the rest of the room, his eyes landing on a heavy desk to the side of the door. As with the rest of the décor, the desk was made of a glossy black material, unmarred save for the surface which was inlaid with pearlescent stone of some sort.

The first drawer he opened had a thick, leather-bound tome inside. _Desks always have the best loot,_ he thought gleefully as he pulled out the heavy book. The writing was, of course, in Tevene, but the pages were remarkably well-preserved. Come to think of it, the entire room was in much better repair than the other rooms; the bedding he had seen on their previous trip was in tatters, but the tapestries and carpet in this room seemed untouched by time. _There isn’t even any dust…_

“Hey, guys?” he called over his shoulder.

Hawke was busy trying to orchestrate the looting of the odd shelving structure; only Fenris seemed to have heard him. The warrior approached cautiously. “What did you find?”

“Only a book so far, but… did you notice how well-preserved this room is?”

“Yes. It is clean, and the fabric shows no signs of wear. Even the door was in better repair than those we passed in the corridors.”

“You don’t think…”

Fenris shrugged, but the gesture wasn’t casual at all. “It is possible the room has seen recent use. That, or there is some sort of magic at play. Preservation is a well-developed discipline in Tevinter.”

Anders shivered. Neither of those possibilities was particularly heartening; the Magisters had either intended this network to operate indefinitely, or there were current occupants.

He tucked the tome into his pack for future investigation, then continued rifling through the desk. The contents were primarily normal desk things; a stack of blank parchment, an ink blotter, nibs and quills, and so forth. In one drawer he found a golden-framed hourglass with a shattered globe, and beside it was a small square object with numerous tiny gears. “This looks dwarven,” he mused aloud.

“Yes. A dwarven time piece, I believe. Danarius had several.”

The bottom drawer on the left was apparently the Magister equivalent of a junk drawer; a jumbled mess of tools and artifacts, most visibly broken, all entirely unfamiliar and exotic to Anders’ eye. Well, there would be time for analysis later. He dumped the contents into his rucksack and pivoted back to the rest of the gang. “You guys find anything good? Ready to keep moving?”

“Mostly just these old-ass coins, but there’s some papers too.” When Anders opened his mouth to reiterate his previous warning, Hawke quickly cut him off with an odd, punitive sound. “Tssht! No, don’t worry, Anders, I’m being gentle. Here, see? You can analyze ‘till your heart’s content once we get back to the surface.”

“Oh, look at this! It’s very pretty – so shiny, and oh! It’s cold to the touch.”

Merrill held up a goblet of iridescent blue metal, with runes inscribed along the surface. Anders leaned in to investigate. “Oh, neat – it has some kind of frost rune etched on the surface; though, wow, I can’t imagine why someone would spend the time and money it would require to make a permanent self-cooling goblet.”

“You underestimate the vanity of Tevinter,” Fenris said mildly.

“Right, let’s hold on to the goblet; maybe Sandal can make a more convenient ice chest or something.” She looked around the room with an air of indifference. “I believe we’re done in here. Shall we get on with it? Remember, meet back here when your corridor is cleared, and holler real loud if you run into any trouble. There’s gotta be a good echo down here, I’d imagine.”

The group split up into their pre-arranged teams, and Anders took a moment to appreciate the sheer fortitude of Hawke’s companions. Aveline wore an expression of grim determination; this was an obligation to both Kirkwall and Hawke. Varric wore a similar expression, though his was both more restrained and clearly mixed with dark memories. In contrast, Hawke looked cavalier and bored, as if this mission were on par with household chores. Izzy looked carefully neutral, but her fidgeting belied her discomfort, and Merrill looked… well, like Merrill. Wide-eyed and curious, impervious to the anxiety that pervaded the rest of the companions.

Heroes, all.

With regimented discipline, borne of countless dangerous missions, the gang broke into their assigned groups and set off. Fenris and Anders trapsed back the way they had entered. In a brief exchange, they agreed to sweep the left-hand side of the corridor on the way to the staircase, and the opposite side on the way back.

The search proceeded with methodical teamwork. In each of the identical rooms, Anders went right for the desk, while Fenris performed a sweep of the rest of the room. The first five chambers they explored were entirely bereft of contents; it was quite possible that others had already looted the chambers, and equally possible that the previous occupants left no trace when they vanished.

In the fourth room, Anders slammed the final empty desk drawer with a huff at the repeated disappointment, but perked up when Fenris murmured something beside him. “Curious. This must be recent.” Anders approached Fenris’s position next to the door. The warrior gestured to the brazier, one of two that comprised the only other standard furniture in the spartan rooms aside from the lone desk.

“What am I looking at?” Anders asked; the brazier looked like all the others to his eye.

Fenris lifted a hand and trailed his pointer finger along the top of the mounting panel; his finger came away dusty, and the fingerprint on the panel gleamed a richer black. Fenris then pointed to similar marks at different points along the brazier. _Oh._ His mind generated images of someone ducking into the room, hiding from something, their hand landing on the brazier in the darkness. Holding on while something passed through the hallway, perhaps?

“Someone was here…” he said aloud.

“Mmm. Recently, it would appear.”

“Could have been Izzy?”

Fenris shrugged. “We can ask.” 

Aside from more disturbed dust in the fourth chamber from the stairs, where they had found him, the search had uncovered a grand total of three blank pieces of parchment, a broken pen nib, and a scrap of moldering cloth by the time they finished winding their way up and down the hallway.

Back at the antechamber, it appeared none of the other companions had returned yet, so Anders stepped back through the ornate door to examine the basin again. “I remember reading somewhere that the Magisters Sidereal used two thirds of the lyrium in the Tevinter Empire to cast the spell that took them to the Golden City. That, plus hundreds of blood sacrifices.”

“You’re in a cheery mood.”

“I’m serious, Fenris – I mean, Uldred took over the entirety of Kinloch Hold using a few sacrifices and mind control magic. What ungodly spell could require so much power that it required that much lyrium, that much blood? I can’t even comprehend it.”

“And hopefully you never do,” Fenris said with a wry twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Oy! Are you insinuating that I might spontaneously decide to raid the Golden City?” Fenris’s expression never wavered, but his words were brimming with irony when he responded, “It would be futile. You would stop to heal every sacrifice and lecture the Magisters on the dangers of lyrium toxicity, and soon the rite would be abandoned due to the sheer tediousness of it all.”

“Hah! Ohhh, you did not just call me tedious. Them’s fightin’ words.” Anders raised his fists in a pantomime of fisticuffs, slugging Fenris on the shoulder playfully.

Fenris looked down at where he had been assaulted, and then looked back up at Anders, a wild gleam in his eyes. Anders threw another lazy punch, but Fenris’s arm snapped up to block in less time than it took to blink. In the next heartbeat, the warrior had him by the forearm; a quick tug sent Anders sprawling forward. He was surprised to find that he rolled automatically, landing somewhat awkwardly in a crouch with his hands splayed on the ground.

“Delicate flowers should not challenge warriors to duels.” Fenris said mildly.

Anders squawked in protest. “Delicate flowers? I’ll show you a delicate flower, you belligerent pillock!” Anders pushed off the ground to a low squat; without conscious direction, his leg was sweeping out in _Serpent’s Welcome_ before he even realized it.

Unceremoniously, Fenris leapt backward, easily evading the sweep. But he was grinning - a resounding compliment by Fenris standards.

Anders stood and turned to face the warrior, fluidly assuming _Open Posture._ He was getting better at anticipating Fenris’s moves, yet he only barely noticed the slight cant of the warrior’s hips and tension in his legs before Fenris leapt forward.

Anders was mid-block when he saw Fenris stumble to a halt. “Do you feel that?” the warrior asked, spinning.

“Feel wha-”

A blistering heat surged through him, like his blood was boiling in his veins. The pain froze him in place. A shout echoed nearby, but Anders could do nothing but stand there, twitching, unable to move as he burned from within. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it felt like many long minutes of being frozen in pain, without knowing quite what was happening.

And then he felt a strange presence, a pressure exerting itself on his mind. Anders had felt the whispers of demons nearly his entire life, but this was quite different, more like a physical presence impossibly exerting force inside his thoughts. It was a vile thing, and the visceral disgust lingered long after the brief prodding faded.

And then the pieces came together. Anders’ thoughts spun into overdrive. _Blood magic. Mind control. Variables: resistance, armor, defense._ As soon as he could move, he seized his staff from the sling on his back and wove the threads of a robust arcane wall in record time. _Was it fast enough?_

“Fenris! Fenris, are you alright?”

“I am,” - Anders’ barrier materialized around them both between one word and the next – “hot. But alright.”

 _Thank the Maker, his mind is his own._ “Where?” Anders barked, stepping towards the antechamber and flattening himself against the wall as he peered out the door. The next thing he heard was a gasp behind him; when he spun around, Fenris had ghosted, his gauntleted fist buried in the sternum of a nondescript human man. Beside the pair locked in their grisly tableau, light poured from a small crack in the wall – _serves us right… why didn’t we think to look for secret doors when Izzy was here? –_ behind which he saw shadows moving. Anders stalked towards the opening, his staff glowing with the raw magic of an incipient blizzard weave.

He didn’t pause. His shoulder rammed the false wall at the same time he hurled the delicate web into the room, a blizzard whirling into life from its strands. Amidst the swirling frost, his eyes registered a group of three middle-age mages, already succumbing to the bitter cold.

He took in the situation while his hands wove the familiar strands of a dispel – he needed to negate the magic they were undoubtedly summoning while their bodies were suspended in ice. Through the frost, he could see that one of the blood mages wore a look of grim determination, while the other two were now frozen in a bent-over posture that accentuated the lurid, unnatural bulge proliferating up from about mid-spine on both of them. _Poor fools…they must have succumbed. Frozen in mid-transformation._ Their minds were likely already lost to abomination, now, but the physical process had been temporarily halted.

In the fraction of a second it took to release the dispel, Fenris blurred past him, his brands filling the room with pale blue light. Anders almost felt badly for the mages; all three shattered on the warrior’s greatsword in a matter of seconds, brittle from the blizzard. The tinkling of falling ice chips faded, and only a great, gaping silence remained.

“Idiots,” Anders sighed, slumping forward a little. “They had the jump on us. If they had worked together to control your mind, instead of assuming we’d tip over at the first blood wound, they could have probably won that fight.” It all felt a little… anticlimactic.

Fenris rematerialized, looking decidedly unimpressed. “You are not seriously complaining that they did not enslave my mind.”

“Of course not! I was merely pointing out that they are idiots.”

“You are an idiot.”

“Saucy cur.”

“Prating wretch.”

“Oh, I like that one. And, uh, nice work with the…” Anders gestured broadly.

“You as well. Are you injured?”

“Isn’t that my line? I’m fine, just a minor case of boiled blood. You?”

“Likewise.” Fenris turned to examine their surroundings, causing Anders to remember they were in unexplored territory.

A large, jet-black chandelier lit the room from above, in addition to braziers at regular intervals along the smooth walls of the circular chamber. To his left, a spiral staircase descended into blackness. In the center of the room was a pedestal, and just behind it sat a large, canopied bed. To either side of the bed, ornate, geometric bookshelves filled with tomes and sundries seemed to blend into the wall; both were curved to fit neatly against the arc of the wall.

Anders wove fresh barriers, ears alert for any sounds coming from the staircase. “Should we clear the stairs?”

Fenris looked up as he considered options, then shook his head. “We should inform Hawke and the others of this new development first. They should not be long. I will keep watch.” He strolled over to the staircase, sword loosely draped over his shoulder, and leaned against the wall just out of sight of anyone coming up the stairs.

Anders nodded, his eye falling on one of the mounted braziers that was missing the oddly shaped screen they had seen on all the braziers thus far. “Take a look at this – I’ve always wondered what keeps the lights in the Idos room running, but I was a little nervous to mess with it. This one is broken, apparently.” He reached to the brazier and pulled a palm-sized, smooth stone off the pedestal; though cool to the touch, the stone emitted a bright, cool glow in his palm.

“It could come in handy.”

“Yeah. And I want to study it.” Anders tucked the stone into his pack, then strode up to the pedestal, disappointed to find it empty. “What do you make of this place? Do Tevinter researchers have officers, or ranks? Or was this a Magister’s room?”

“Unlikely. No Magister would demean himself with such base quarters. Though, the notes did indicate these warrens were occupied ages ago – it is possible that the Empire was less… ostentatious, in the past.”

Anders turned to the bookshelves, scanning titles and pulling out anything that looked remotely useful. His hand skimmed over a fanciful orrery that occupied the top of one bookshelf, with planets of gleaming metal propped up by delicate rods. An elegant, gilded handle on the side set the entire array spinning, each planet orbiting around a central sun. The most elaborately detailed planet, clearly meant to represent Thedas, had a single moon circling it, with a second moon circling the first. Anders didn’t have much knowledge of astronomy outside of a fundamental grasp of constellations and folklore, so he chose to chalk that oddity up to the general mysteries of the universe that apparently no one could agree on.

He continued to browse the shelves, his eyes landing on a box, checked in jet and ivory. Inside were an assortment of tiny statuettes, matching pairs of white and black figures. “Huh, this looks like a chess board. Do you play, Fenris?”

Fenris chuckled darkly. “A little.”

Anders glanced over, squinting at the enigmatic look on the warrior’s face. _Right, he’s either never heard of it, or he’s a grandmaster._

Anders frowned, looking at the array of relics. The compounding mysteries of this place were a constant vexation, and every attempt he had made to decipher said mysteries only left him with more questions. _Alright. Clear head. What are the facts?_ “So, there were Tevinter mages here researching… well, even before the First Blight.”

“What about the Blight?” a gruff voice asked from behind him.

“Hawke! Maker, you startled me. Fenris was supposed to be keeping lookout…” he glanced accusingly at the warrior, who was struggling to keep a straight face. _That bastard._

“I will assume from the corpse and the ice that you were attacked? Not deliberately defying orders?”

Anders rolled his eyes. “The former, of course. Did you two find anything?”

“Yeah, we found a whole helluva lot of bumpkis.” Izzy said from the frame of the false wall, her expression one of pure disgust. “That is, unless you’re counting mothballs. There were lots of mothballs.”

Anders hummed in commiseration, though he hadn’t really expected much from the small bedchambers. Even from only a brief glance, he could see that they had been tidy and austere.

“And should I ask what inspired your curiosity about the First Blight?”

“I’m honestly not sure… I’m just trying to put a timeline together, I guess. So much of these tunnels is a mystery. Honestly, I guess I was just grasping at straws. Do you happen to know when Tevinter abandoned Kirkwall?”

“Varric would probably know. They haven’t returned, I take it?” Hawke inquired.

“Not since we’ve been back.” He gestured at the dead maleficarum. “I wonder if, in light of our visitors, we should maybe go look for them?”

“Well, it is on the way… though, perhaps we should see what’s down these stairs first. I don’t like the idea of blood mages following us unimpeded,” Hawke said with a frown of distaste.

“Well, there could theoretically be blood mages anywhere down here. I can set up some glyphs… if anyone tries to follow, it would slow them down, at least.”

Hawke debated a while, then nodded. “Do it.”

Anders seized the largest threads of force magic he could manipulate and wove a repulsion glyph that covered the top of the stairs. To be safe, he summoned a wisp and bound it to the glyph. After siphoning off a small measure of his mana into the wisp, he examined the magical threads of the compound spell; it held fast, and would keep the glyph active for hours to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, let me start off with some recognition! All credit for “investigative spelunking” goes to tatertwitch, and “prating wretch” belongs to GammaCavy. Thank you so much, not just for the amazing comments, but for letting me 'steal' your catchy phrases :) 
> 
> Next order of business: this arc was a terrible idea. I'm like an ex-smoker who promises their partner they'll just have one at a party and then goes on a mad binge. It seemed so simple, a few weeks ago... just throw out some of the facts, some of the common theories, and move on. Suffice it to say... that has not happened. A lot of the stuff under Kirkwall is directly from canon, and I'm happy to provide my sources if anyone is curious! (I mean... the blood library is not canon. But most everything to come is!) And let me just say, on the topic of canon - I didn't notice how much of a complainer my beloved Varric is until I searched through his dialogue for Merrill's burn. I mean, damn, he's by far the most grouchy in the lot - how have I never noticed that before?
> 
> That also means this got longer than anticipated. I have one or two chapters of pure dungeon madness lined up after this initial lighthearted start. Then a little bit of fluff, then some serious smut, and then some serious plot. Whew.


	28. Enigma - Exploration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: As I mentioned, some of the smut is going to be embedded in the larger story, and I'm reluctant to add TWs at the top of chapters that aren't entirely devoted to sexytimes (the purpose being to allow people to skip the chapter if they so choose). So, from now on, any smut that is contained in a larger chapter will be cordoned off with a **double horizontal** \- a line of tildes and a horizontal line. Just imagine the ~'s are just a bunch of S's for "SMUT! OMG SMUT AHEAD", and feel free to scroll through to the next double line to avoid the explicit wank material.

The search for the final three members of their strewn party was a comically short one, as the trio had nearly completed their circuit back to the mysteriously lavish room containing the dragon basin and pumps - the ‘blood library’ as Hawke had dubbed the place. They had made only a single discovery: Merrill had found a piece of parchment containing only a single line of Tevene at first glance. However, a quick flare of her magic had caused the parchment to burgeon with crimson writing. The penmanship was sloppy, the lines thick and smeared, as though written in distress. In the middle of the page, a verse stood out, written in shaky Common:

They cried out in rage to gods

Who did not answer.

And they would have vengeance upon

The gods of broken promises.

Silence, 3:18

“Huh.” Varric said.

“It’s written like a verse from the Chant, but I’ve never heard of that Canticle.” Hawke said, her expression drawn and dark.

“Everything down here is written in Tevene. Why is that in Common?” Anders asked.

A round of shrugs and blank expressions met his question. _Mysteries atop mysteries._

After a brief pause to relay the blood mage attack to the group, the gang reluctantly proceeded to the end of the hallway, and from there, into the expansive cavern. On the precipice of the enormous crevasse, they had to pause again for everyone to swear, gape, and mutter their awe and terror. Truth be told, Anders thought the sight no less awe-inspiring for having seen it before.

“Maker’s breath… You know, all those yarns Uncle Emmet used to weave, about dwarves falling into the sky… it makes a little more sense down here,” Varric breathed in hushed consternation.

“Oh, but that doesn’t make any sense, does it? That’s just a hole. It’s not the sky. Although, legends often contain a kernel of truth…” Merrill looked around, her expression stymied. “Well, do try not to fall into the sky, Varric.”

“I will try my best not to do the impossible, Daisy.”

At last, they advanced toward the second large door, down the slope of the spiral walkway at the edge of the grand cavern. The doors were spaced at regular intervals of four span or so, but they reached the doorway in record time; Anders noticed, but didn’t mention, that their pace increased dramatically on the open causeway - and this despite Varric and Aveline walking sideways with their backs to the cavern wall.

Anders grinned to himself, then promptly tuned out the subsequent banter. He was too preoccupied scanning the vast chamber for movement. Unlike their previous visit, all the doors he could see along the cavern wall were cracked open; that must have been the racket they heard earlier, when Merrill touched the sigil on the wall with her blood magic. _I guess our presence wasn’t going to stay a secret for long anyways,_ Anders consoled himself.

The second doorway spilled into a claustrophobic space; as long as the corridors of the floor above and a dozen span wide, though the low ceilings gave Anders the impression that the rock was pressing in on them from above.

“I don't know what the ancient Tevinters used this place for, but I bet it wasn't "making people feel at home". In fact, I’d ask if we could never come here again, but I won’t now that I know Daisy is cataloging these comments to use against me later.”

Anders snorted; Varric was… not wrong. Welcoming certainly wasn’t a word to describe the spartan, oppressive chamber. By the looks of the long tables that ran the length of the space, it was a dining hall, but not the fun tavern variety. He couldn’t have been more grateful for the now-familiar glowstone braziers dotting the walls at even intervals, because such a confining space would have been hellish if they could only see as far as their torchlight.

“These… tables. They are cut directly from the rock. Look.” Fenris observed stiffly.

Anders examined the closest one, and suddenly became aware of how perfectly smooth the tables were. And not just the tables - the walls and ceiling, too. _Maker, now that I think about it,_ _even the corridors on the floor above were smooth as_ _plaster_ – nothing like the typical mine shaft, or the staircase that led to the Idos room. “What could possibly cut bedrock this smoothly?” Anders whispered into the silence, but a faint echo was the only reply.

They spread out and methodically investigated several small wooden doors along the walls; most were merely cavities in the rock with bare shelving inside, though towards the back they found several chambers with dusty basins of various shapes and sizes. Purely by accident, Anders discovered a magical dweomer on one, as it began to fill with fresh water as soon as he touched it.

After a moment’s thought, he removed one of the many canvas sacks he had wrapped around the orb from Tershiron’s staff and tucked the smallest runed basin inside. He was both a little surprised and quite pleased to discover that the enchantment seemed to require skin contact to operate. _Crafty bastards, weren’t they_. _Such a complex spell… it must be child’s play to them._ Into his overstuffed pack it went.

Stiff with impatience, Hawke herded the group back to the massive cavern when it became apparent that there was nothing to loot or kill. Much to her chagrin, the third doorway opened into a long corridor, the mirror image of the one the first floor: an antechamber with three hallways and its own blood library.

By unspoken consensus, the team stuck with the same strategy on the third floor, and, unfortunately, yielded even fewer results. Their efforts yielded a sum total of a few gems and coins, a small collection of notes in Tevene, and another thick, leather-bound tome, identical to the one Anders had filched from the desk’s twin two floors above. 

When they emerged back into the cavern, Fenris halted at the doorway and pointed to the arched frame above the tall metal door. “That is the same sigil as the first door.” Anders squinted; he hadn’t even noticed a sigil above the first door, but trusted that Fenris knew what he was talking about.

“So, what, this is the sign for ‘Bed and Desk Place?’” Hawke grumbled.

“Apparently.”

The fourth floor was another dining hall, and the fifth floor, with the same sigil as the first and third, was a third iteration of the same bedroom/workroom layout. Anders drew a hasty mental map: a cylinder, corridors jutting out in descending spiral; each bedroom corridor branched into a lopsided cross at the center - a third hallway on the right side, a single room on the left – while the dining rooms were a single, rectangular cavity. He supposed there was probably a good reason for the spiral design – something to do with structural integrity – but who could say with this much magic and mystery. 

They swept the fifth floor in record time, then regrouped just inside the open metal door to the cavern.

“As much as I’m enjoying the lack of surprises, we have a lot of ground to cover, and I don’t enjoy the thought of staying down here for weeks on end. Anyone mind if we look for different sigils?” Hawke’s comment was framed as a question, in structure if not tone, but no one seemed eager to reply. The sudden-onset muteness was understandable; words seemed thin, here - swallowed into the colossal abyss of the cavern - such that needless discussion seemed frivolous to the point of absurdity.

“Onward, then,” their fearless leader declared.

* * *

The ninth door down had a different sigil. Anders had finally begun to recognize the ‘bed and desk’ sigil, and had a rough idea of the ‘food and wash’ pattern; he was inordinately pleased when Fenris confirmed that this floor was something else.

“Well, let’s see what other fresh horrors this Maker-forsaken place has in store. Tits up, everyone,” Hawke said with a backwards glance at the group.

Anders wove a secure barrier around each member of their ragtag party; Merrill whispered something that sounded disturbingly like a prayer; Varric cursed, and Izzy cursed more creatively; Aveline and Fenris both remained silent and stoic as ever.

Hawke kicked the door inwards and strode forward, torch in one hand, sword in the other. Fenris and Aveline plowed headlong after her. Izzy dropped into stealth, and Varric and Merrill brought up the rear. Anders wove a large ball of flamelight to illuminate the way and followed with grim determination.

After three paces, he bumped into Merrill’s back, who bumped into Varric, who splayed forward against Aveline’s rear. Protests and affronted snarls filled the room. “What the hell? Why are we stopping?” Anders asked above the squabbling. He edged around the group until he could see clearly into the room.

It wasn’t a room, so much as a concourse of sorts – a large hollow in the stone, dimly lit, with low ceilings and only a few sparse furnishings. From the looks of it, the only things remaining were those too heavy to loot. The walls were peppered with doors and tunnels of all shapes and sizes; the single massive metal door leading to the cavern, a half dozen smaller wooden doors, and passages cut directly into the rock.

“Right. This is… what we hoped for. Right?” Hawke trailed off, looking uncharacteristically indecisive. “We should split up, see if any of these lead to the surface. Aveline, if you make it topside, do you think you could convince the Guard to come investigate where these all lead?”

Aveline looked thoughtful for a moment, then gave a single, brisk nod. “It is relevant to the safety of Kirkwall. I will see what I can do.”

“Ok. Same groups, and we all meet back here. Seriously, use the chalk. If you try to pull some ‘oh, sorry Hawke, we couldn’t come back down because we got lost in those darn tunnels’ bullshit, you’ll live to regret it – but just barely.” The words were caustic - classic authoritarian -but the furtive glances she cast on each companion made Anders suspect she was more worried about being able to track people with the chalk than the potential for defectors.

There was a brief argument over which three tunnels would be most useful to investigate. Aveline’s logic won out, such that they would explore three of the passages with wooden doors, largely due to their similarity to the first-floor passage that led to the Idos room.

At Hawke’s urging, each team chalked their initials beside their assigned passage, and Anders paused a moment, unable to suppress a grin at seeing the primitive ‘F|A’. Chalk or no, there was something charming about his name etched beside Fenris’s. The strange giddiness sustained him for about half an hour of stair climbing, at which point they came across their first landing.

To the left, a wooden door; to the right, a narrow channel, more like a natural crevasse in the bedrock than an excavated mine shaft. Fenris turned, facing him on the small landing. A brief moment of eye contact, a single dark brow quirking up, and an answering grin decided the matter. Of _course_ they were going to investigate. Fenris marked an X beside the crevasse, then led the way.

It was a narrow, winding path, more like a natural, proper cave than anything they had encountered thus far. It was dark, and damp, and strangely hot within the small tunnel, as compared to just a short distance away on the stairs. After just a few minutes, they had to turn sideways to edge through a narrow section where the shaft had partially caved in.

The faint red glow snuck up on them. In retrospect, there was no point at which the ambient luminescence suddenly became visible, as the flickering light of their torches refracted off the jet stone, casting the crevasse in flickering orange and red hues.

“There is not good ventilation here,” Fenris observed in his neutral baritone.

“Yeah – there’s a smell, too – I can’t quite put a name to it. Mineral, or metallic, or something.”

“Perhaps we should turn back.”

“Look, there – it looks like the shaft widens up ahead – and oh, there’s light up there, too. More braziers?”

Fenris shrugged. “I guess we shall see.” After a few more paces, Fenris mused aloud, “We have been traveling southeast since the party split up. If those stairs continue straight, they will likely reach the surface somewhere north of the city. I suspect we are under Hightown right now.”

“Maker, Fenris – how do you do that? I can barely tell which way is up down here…”

Fenris shrugged casually. “The stairs from the Idos room face the west side of the mansion. We made seven 90-degree turns in the descent, then traveled north for-” At Anders exasperated huff, he looked over his shoulder with a strangely demure expression. “A poor sense of direction does not lend itself to successful escape.”

Anders chuckled fondly. “Psh, speak for yourself. Every time I escaped, I just ran whichever way my feet took me. _Brasca,_ I can’t even imagine how much information is tucked away inside that hard head of yours…”

Fenris frowned. “It is of average rigidity. Brasca?”

“Oh, that’s from another elf I used to know. You should ask Izzy about that Antivan sot. Hah! He was… nothing like you. Anyways, I don’t really know what it means, but it’s fun to say. And I didn’t mean the literal hardness of your head – it’s a colloquialism, it means you’re stubborn.”

“Oh. Well, your head must be significantly more hard than mine.”

“No, Fenris, it’s not… you would say I’m more hard-headed… augh, never mind.”

“Shhh – do you hear that?”

Anders stilled, ears straining into the emptiness. “No? Hear what?” he whispered.

Fenris held a finger to his lips, then proceeded quietly. Two dozen steps further in, and Anders became aware of a soft ‘shrk-shrk’ sound, like something scratching against the stone. Barriers bloomed around them both in a flash of frenzied weaving. Fenris plucked Lethendralis from his back.

Anders laid a hand on Fenris’s arm to pause his advance, then relieved him of his torch. He placed both against the cavern wall behind them; the ambient light here was dim, but adequate to see by.

A few more paces. Fenris stilled by a damp, smooth column of rock on the edge of where the shaft opened up, motioning Anders to his side.

The area was part of the tunnels from the original mining operation, that much was clear. The area was relatively narrow for a mining cave, perhaps two span across, with flat sides and an arched roof. It widened slightly around a blind shaft that continued both above and below. The floor was smooth and flat, likely cut along bedding planes, and the roof was supported by a wood frame and what appeared to be iron spikes. The crevasse looked in from near where the tunnel terminated in a pile of rubble, but the mineshaft continued out of sight in the opposite direction.

As far as Anders could see, the tunnel was riddled with faintly glowing red crystals, just as they had seen in the ancient thaig all those years ago. The lyrium crystals left a strange aura, almost a scintillation that flitted in the air above it. Anders shivered; everything about the stuff put his nerves on edge. Whatever magic permeated this lyrium, it was definitely not the good kind.

Fenris stepped forward carefully and silently. Anders followed, trying to replicate the warrior’s silent footsteps. The air was stiflingly hot, and… silent. He touched Fenris’s shoulder and motioned to his ear; “The noise?” he mouthed silently.

Fenris frowned, eyes scanning around them, then took another step into the room, turning in slow, cautious circles.

After a few more wary steps, the warrior paused and pointed, drawing Anders’ eye to the shaft in the center of the mining tunnel. It was awash in red. As far as the eye could see, up and down, the red crystals had covered nearly every surface.

Anders had seen enough. He didn’t know enough about the lyrium to substantiate the odious feeling these crystals inspired, but something about that idol had driven Bartrand mad. He tugged the warrior’s pauldron and stepped backwards.

An angry howl reverberated through the room, followed by a flurry of words that echoed in the small space, all jumbled together in a language Anders didn’t speak. _Tevene_? 

Fenris whirled to the flicker of movement on his right, but even his preternatural reflexes were too slow to prevent a slender shape from crashing into him. A jolting clangor filled the cavern, Lethendralis hitting stone, knocked from Fenris’s hands as the two shapes tumbled to the ground. Fenris rolled with the momentum of the impact, trying to pin the attacker, but the creature was improbably powerful for all its diminutive size.

Anders’ mind – always so orderly and calm in the face of danger – stuttered to a halt.

 _Fenris._ His panic dilated time, each moment stretching until sound distorted and every detail emblazoned itself on his mind. He watched the brief struggle, saw momentary flashes of parchment-thin, pale skin stretched over gruesomely taut muscle beneath its tattered tunic and torn britches. In agonizing detail, he saw the rabid thing shove Fenris and pounce atop him.

The creature reared back, and Anders got a glimpse of its face: long, pointy ears; emaciated cheeks; glimmering, fiery red eyes; thin, pale lips drawn back in a deranged rictus. Blackened, spidery veins marred its chin and neck, then disappeared beneath a tattered blue and grey cloak. _Maker, that looks like…_

It spoke again, this time in Common, and something about the creature’s voice needled him. “Not a banquet! No guests invited!” Claws, red and horrific, hovered above Fenris’s face; the warrior’s sinew strained as he clutched both arms, keeping them at bay.

Anders came back to himself in a flash. He took a step forward, pressed a boot against the creature’s side, and _shoved._ The howl rang through the small chamber as the figure went sprawling to the side. A heartbeat later, Anders’ frost spell spewed from his fingers, freezing the shape solid, as well as everything else in a cone shape that stretched a span behind the creature.

“Fenris! Are you… did it scratch you? Are you hurt anywhere? That thing looks infected, or possessed or something – do you have any broken skin??” He summoned a blazing sphere of light, causing them both to squint, and resumed his panicked search of the warrior’s body. He delved his healer awareness through Fenris’s veins, seeking, but thankfully not finding, any hint of foreign material.

“No. I am unharmed.” He stood in one fluid motion, allowed Anders another moment to fuss, and then turned his head to the creature, which looked for all the world like a lurid, rapidly melting ice sculpture. “We should see to that… thing.”

Anders struggled to control his terror. He would have sensed if something was amiss, and Fenris wouldn’t be cavalier about something like this. Before he could ask what the warrior intended to do, Fenris strode forward and, in an uncanny echo of Anders’ previous motion, placed his foot against a frozen midsection and pushed. Ice shattered on the hard stone, red and black crystals splashing across the cavern floor in a wave of tinkling shards.

“Right… I guess that works…”

“Mother will be angry.”

“…wha?”

“That is what it said. In Tevene.”

“Well, I guess we did it a favor. Put it out of its misery…did you see its cloak, Fenris? That looked like a Grey Warden uniform.”

Fenris absorbed that information with a grim look. He bent to retrieve his sword, and a moment later, he crouched and pointed. “Look at this. These crystals…”

Anders reluctantly stepped forward, trying not to think what he was stepping in, and looked where Fenris pointed. The frozen lyrium in the blast radius of his frost spell was hissing and spluttering, but being near the frozen crystals didn’t make his skin crawl as the rest of this strange lyrium did. “Huh. It doesn’t seem to like my frost spell, does it?”

He stared a moment longer, mind whirring, then shivered. “Right. Can we go now? This place makes me feel like I’m in a bathtub full of spiders.”

“That is vile.”

“Exactly.”

Fenris acquiesced. Anders led the way, stooping to retrieve their torches once they stepped back into the rough crevasse. He couldn’t get away from the place fast enough; a sheen of sweat beaded across his brow by the time he scurried back into the main stairwell. He scrubbed his arm across his face, grateful he was wearing his tattered old robe as he mopped his brow.

“I don’t know about you, but I vote we see where these stairs lead and then get back to the others - no more detours. That lyrium is all wrong, Fenris. And why is it so damned hot in here?”

And then he remembered the interminable climb up to the Idos room. Turning, he looked up the Maker-damned staircase with dismay.

Fenris stood facing the door, his face partially obscured in shadow. He lifted a hand to touch the wooden door. “Are you not curious? Not even a little?”

“What, you’ve not met your quota of deranged, possibly virulent attackers today?” he protested weakly. The teasing fell flat, Anders’ frayed nerves far too obvious in his tone.

Fenris’s hand slipped down the wood, tried the latch. “Locked.” He turned his head, expression neutral, and gave a little nod towards the door. _He’s asking permission…_ which was, well, cute, actually. Truth be told, Anders suspected he was constitutionally incapable of refusing the warrior anything, at this point. _Maker forbid he ever discover that, though._

Anders sighed dramatically, but nodded. Fenris flared his brands and stepped through the wooden doorway. Moments later, the door flew open, and Fenris beckoned him.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Anders muttered under his breath, stepping in.

Fenris paused beside him, tilting his head to quietly finish the phrase almost directly into his ear. “But satisfaction brought him back.” There was something suggestive in his tone, something that shunted blood away from his brain. Which was… rather odd, considering the discordant circumstances. Anders squirmed, shook his head, and refreshed their barriers.

They were standing in a rectangular chamber, small and well-lit with braziers. Unnervingly, it was furnished – a living quarters, by the looks of it, with a bed and a desk, as well as a small table with two chairs.

No one waited to welcome them, pleasantly or otherwise, and as far as he could tell, they were standing in the only entrance. Fenris stepped forward, sweeping the chamber for hiding places or hidden exits, while Anders poked around. After finding nothing of note in the desk, he pulled back a small curtain from the wall and gasped. “Shit, Fenris… look at this. Someone was here. Recently.”

Fenris was by his side in moments, eyes following Anders’ gaze.

Bread. A benign little loaf of bread, as well as a few glass jars of flour, seeds and nuts. This was the first sign of recent habitation they had encountered, the only sign of life they’d seen aside from the three blood mages and the lyrium-addled elf-ghoul-creature.

Just the memory set Anders’ hands trembling; the sight of the warrior pinned beneath that creature played over and over in his mind. “We should… I-- I mean… what if the occupant comes back? We should go.”

Fenris looked over at him, eyes searching, assessing. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’m… sorry, I just – I froze, back there. I was worried for you, and I froze up right when I should have been doing something to help…”

“You did help.” Fenris’s hand pulled Anders’ away from the curtain, squeezing a moment before sliding away. The warrior’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with a flicker of deviance. “It is a good look on you. Dashing rescuer,” he murmured wryly.

Anders wanted to roll his eyes, certain he was being made fun of, but he couldn’t quite manage to look away. “Sure, tease the mage while he’s down, very noble of you.”

“I was not teasing. Perhaps you do not realize it, but you tend to take charge in dangerous situations. It is an attractive quality.”

Anders' defense mechanisms crumbled in the face of those simple, candid words. “Fenris,” he said helplessly. He looked down, saw his chest rising and falling far too rapidly. “I… you… I don’t like it. It’s like living with my heart outside my chest. Vulnerable.” He looked up, met the warrior’s eyes. “Dangerous.”

“Second thoughts?”

“No… no, not as such. Just…” The way Fenris was looking at him, open and concerned, was twisting his insides in knots. In the light of the brazier, those large eyes were so green they seemed to burn with emerald flames. “Just… take care. Please.”

Fenris watched him, eyes trailing down his face. He was seeing too much, surely, the unvarnished concern and regard and desire that had been flushed to the surface. All the things Anders couldn’t hide - not here, of all places, in the midst of all the darkness and madness. “Please,” he reiterated, “because there’s no damn point to any of this without you.”

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fenris stilled, his expression unreadable. Anders spotted a smudge of dirt on the warrior’s cheek, likely something he had acquired in the melee with the red-clawed creature. Anders reached up on a whim, his thumb brushing the dirt away, eyes locked on the smudge as if it were a great medical mystery.

The warrior’s hand follow suite, wrapping around Anders’ wrist and eliciting a very obvious shiver. Fenris nodded to himself. “I knew you were not alright.”

Anders’ free fist balled at his side; he licked his dry lips. “I’m perfectly fine, I’m--”

Fenris leaned forward and kissed him, capturing Anders’ mouth and swallowing his objection with a hesitant, gentle press of his lips.

Anders froze, his mind scrabbling to exert some measure of self-control – _alright, just a quick kiss and then –_ but his previous fear quickly shifted into something else, something much more urgent. Between one moment and the next, his need for the pliable elf pressed against him became a diabolical compulsion. _We shouldn’t, not here, not_ – but the sound logic never made it past his lips; he was rapidly losing the plot of his mental protests in the firestorm.

And in the end, it hardly mattered – whatever his brain had to say on the issue, his body didn’t care one way or the other. It had been far too long since last they kissed. More than a full day, at least. The ache of wanting the damned warrior never fully left him, but a day was just too long.

The grasp on Anders’ wrist guided his hand down to Fenris’s shoulder then slackened; fingertips caressed lightly under the cuff of his sleeve, a calloused thumb rubbing circles into the tender flesh above Anders’ pulse. It was maddening, and incredible, that such a simple touch could cause his abdominal muscles to seize up with inconceivable want.

At some point, Fenris’s hand left his wrist and he pulled back, but only to unstrap his gauntlets and gloves. The warrior tossed them aside along with his pack, but took a few steps to reverently place Lethendralis across the table. Anders shrugged off his own pack and discarded his staff without quite the same level-headed care.

And then the warrior strode back to him with _intent_. Just the sight of Fenris storming towards him with that _look – brasca,_ it took his breath away. 

Fenris didn’t hesistate for a moment, capturing his lips and resuming right where they had left off. A few gentle pecks, and then the tenor of the kiss changed almost instantly - from sweet and hesitant to ravenous. Anders’ shallow panting flooded his senses with the taste of their shared breath; it was like a drug, a powerful intoxicant that lowered all inhibitions and overrode any shred of common sense secreted away inside him. There was something inherently life-affirming in his need to be subsumed in Fenris. And, at the same time, there was something decidedly rousing in the adrenaline-fueled danger they courted by doing this here, now.

The warrior leaned against him, driving him backwards with hips and hands, until Anders’ back met a stone wall. His threadbare robe and tunic, now damp with sweat, were flimsy barriers; the press of cool stone on his back caused him to gasp - a sound both surprised and preposterously needy. Fenris took advantage of his open mouth, a hand snaking round Anders’ neck to pull him deeper into the kiss while his tongue teased past Anders’ lips.

Waking from his momentary shock, Anders summarily dismissed all his reservations and melted into the kiss. He tilted his head, opening his mouth wider to let the warrior in, his hands dropping down to splay along the bony prominence of Fenris’s hips. Fenris’s right hand followed, dropping down to resume the delicious and maddening caress against his wrist.

Fenris’s teeth grazed his lower lip, tugging lightly, before pulling back to mouth heated kisses along his jawline. His breath was hot, unsteady against Anders’ flushed skin, and his breath tingled down Anders’ spine when he groaned, then murmured, “Mmmhh, how you tempt me, mage...”

Anders’ breath hitched, and Fenris’s velvet growl ghosted over his ear. “It is strange. An urge, a need, to see how long I can continue - how far I can go before you stop me. Or until I cannot stop myself.”

Anders groaned and stilled. “Does that mean you want to stop?”

“No,” Fenris replied firmly, and there was an edge of steel there now, beneath the velvet. Anders could only moan in response; whether from relief or arousal, he couldn’t be sure.

Anders twisted his hand, gripping Fenris’s palm and entwining their fingers, then lifted their joined hands to rest on the wall above his head. Fenris made a sound low in his throat, that intoxicating growl of his, and insinuated his leg between Anders’ thighs. Clearly he didn’t mind the suggestive position.

Eyes closing, Anders let his head fall back against the cool stone wall, grateful for the something to lean against. He nearly laughed aloud to discover the truth of the old cliché – Fenris had made him literally weak in the knees, legs shaky against the firm pressure of Fenris’s narrow, muscular thigh.

His hips canted shamelessly, rubbing the now-prominent ridge in his britches against the warrior’s thigh and pelvis. Oh _,_ it was nowhere near enough, but the tease was agonizing, and it was pure ecstasy, and he needed _more._

As if on cue, the warrior’s free hand dropped to just above Anders’ knee, rubbing small circles before snaking up his inner thigh beneath the layers of robe and tunic _. Fenris must be a much better mind reader than I am,_ he mused through the foggy haze in his lust-addled mind.

All thought ceased only a moment later. A frantic whine escaped from Anders’ throat as Fenris splayed those elegant, dexterous fingers over the bulge in his britches. The warrior went to work; Anders writhed, and moaned, and did his flailing best to remain standing while Fenris palmed him with an expert blend of pressure and friction.

A sharp nip at the apex between neck and shoulder brought Anders back to his senses, at least to some degree. The warrior was grinning against his neck, he could feel it.

“Oh, fuck – _Fenris_ – this is not going to take long if you keep that up,” he stammered. Fenris chuckled and resumed his two-pronged assault of lips and hands, but Anders wasn’t fooled; that chuckle had sounded less amused, more throaty and ragged. Fenris was just as dazed, just as lost – though definitely more coordinated.

Anders’ own breath was coming in sharp, short bursts as one of those clever hands palmed up and down the length of his restrained erection. And then the delicious stimulation vanished; it took Anders a moment to realize those fingers were now at his waist, deftly performing Fenris’s patented clothing sorcery on the drawstring of his britches.

But there the warrior’s hand stilled, resting against the heated flesh of Anders’ lower abdomen, knuckles lightly grazing the thin patch of golden hair that trailed down to his groin.

The warrior’s head tilted on Anders’ shoulder; mossy green eyes flicked up to meet amber. His voice was low but strained, filled with longing and need, as he gently tugged the drawstring. “Anders… ?” His mouth never left Anders’ neck, still planting hot, open-mouthed kisses, but then, Fenris seemed to have few compunctions around speaking with his mouth full.

The request was – well, it was too much. And it was laughable, really. Anders wanted Fenris inside his very pores, he wanted him every possible way and every single moment and _right now_ and always - and this foolish man was asking permission to touch him?

“Fen—risss…” The groan was long, drawn out – a plea more than a word - but it was the best he could manage.

Fenris must have taken his meaning, because his knuckles closed, lightly tugging at the patch of hair just beneath the waistband of his britches. He then smoothed his hand along the hem, hitching the fabric down a few inches, before reaching in and taking Anders’ hard length in a strong, sure hold.

Anders breath abandoned his lungs in a hiss, while his abdomen clenched at the contact, bowing his body forward against the warrior’s lithe, sturdy frame.

Anders’ free hand darted up to his mouth. Without realizing it, he found himself biting his knuckle to hold back a shout. Fenris noticed, brushed his hand aside and reclaimed his lips. It probably counted as a kiss, but it felt more like a whirlwind of lips, teeth, tongue, the desperate need to be closer than physical bodies would allow.

The warrior moaned shamelessly into Anders’ mouth, seemingly lost to the same relentless hunger Anders felt when that hand slid over the ridge of his swollen tip. Anders hadn’t quite realized he was already embarrassingly hard, the head of his cock slick with evidence of his eager arousal. But, then, the warrior was uncannily, devastatingly good with his hands.

He stroked Anders with obsessive attention. The calloused pads of his fingers teased and circled against Anders’ weeping slit, coaxing out moisture, which he then palmed in slow and deliberate strokes down the entire length. Each time Anders felt like the heat, the intensity, the sheer proximity of the elf was too much, Fenris lifted his palm, removing all contact but the maddeningly light grip of three fingers.

It was similar, and entirely different from, his brief trysts in the Circle. There was a teenage desperation to his desire, and the urgency instilled by risk of discovery – but it was so much more ruinous when the underlying feelings were deep and genuine. And it was not nearly enough; unlike the pragmatism that pervaded the tower, he wanted more. Oh, there was so much more he wanted from this infuriating madman.

His fuzzy, tender musings were interrupted when a wave of dizziness washed over him – he realized, then, that he had been holding his breath, lost in sensation and blissed affection, and he had to break the kiss to pull back for air. Fenris’s lips immediately retreated to the tender skin beneath his ear, while his hand assumed a demanding rhythm just beneath the ridge of his swollen cockhead.

Anders writhed, and moaned, and struggled to master his desperation as he was methodically – and _quickly -_ unraveled by the force that was Fenris. Because, really, there was no rational, tangible reason why a hand should feel so good, but it was _Fenris’s_ hand – Fenris’s talented, clever fingers, Fenris’s breath on his neck. It was Fenris rubbing obscene words out of his mouth with that ridiculously talented hand on his cock.

Relentlessly, inexorably as the tides, Fenris brought him right to the edge, then retreated. Each time, Anders was more and more certain he wouldn’t last. Anders barely recognized the noises being elicited from his mouth.

But Fenris – Fenris seemed to know what he needed, even if Anders didn’t. He extricated his right hand from Anders’ grasp, freeing the mage’s arm from their joint effort to pin it to the wall above him, and slowly brought the freed hand to Anders’ cheek.

The warrior lifted his head, and those eyes… oh, Maker those eyes. Fenris’s pupils were blown wide, his expression an open book of such bewildered want, such helpless desire - Anders bit his lip to keep from coming just from that look alone. And then the warrior brought his finger to Anders’ lips while his head nodded suggestively downward. Anders was so lost, he didn’t think he could recall his own name, but this – this he understood instinctively.

He bent his head down and lathed his tongue up Fenris’s palm, hot and sweaty and _Fenris._ The warrior moved to drop his hand down, but Anders captured his wrist and pulled those devilish fingers back to his lips.

With an eagerness that surprised even him, Anders worked those fingers wantonly with his mouth, his tongue, his lips. _This is what I would do to you, Fenris – this is what I would look like with my lips wrapped around your thick, hard cock._ Fenris had been oddly reluctant to be the recipient of their activities, and Anders desperately needed him to know what he was missing.

“ _Kaffas,_ Anders, your mouth…”

Anders reached forward with a hand, unerringly homing in on the hard bulge in Fenris’s trousers. “Let me--”

Fenris cut him off with a choked moan. “Yes.. but…not here.” Anders let his hand slide away reluctantly, hoping he remembered later, so he could hold Fenris to those words.

The warrior withdrew his fingers, glistening from Anders’ attentions, and brought it down to replace the left hand on his cock. The warm, wet slide nearly tore Anders apart; Fenris smoothed the wetness down his length with his palm, pausing to cup and smooth over his tightly drawn, wrinkled sack, then circled the base of his shaft for a few quick, firm tugs.

Anders’ free hand clawed at Fenris’s back, his shoulders, grasped handfuls of hair, flailed over every inch of the warrior he could reach.

A strangled, raw noise seemed to erupt from somewhere deep in Fenris’s chest. “I…” he panted, “I could finish like this, just watching you. Hearing you.”

“Shit, oh shit, Fenris, when you say things like that--”

Anders felt the familiar clutching sensation, the riptide building just behind his aching cock; he ground his teeth together in a futile effort to deny the sensation through sheer force of will, but he was lost. “I can’t – Fenris!” he cried, a futile attempt to warn the warrior he was going to climax, if that’s what you could call the feeling that was threatening to rip him apart from the inside. There was no stopping it. He grasped the warrior’s forearm and bit his own knuckle with bruising force as he came, sobbing and bucking and shouting, into Fenris’s hand.

Fenris leaned in impossibly closer, his breath hot on Anders’ neck, muttering fierce, indecipherable words into his ear as he held him through each intense convulsion. Every movement sent sparks stuttering along his nerves to feed the explosion at his core, dancing the frontier between bliss and agony. He shook his way through the crashing wave of ecstasy, the slow and prolonged aftershocks, almost entirely reliant on Fenris to keep him upright.

After the last splash of seed had been milked from his spasming shaft by the warrior’s firm grip, the first semi-coherent thing that trickled into the vacuum left behind by the climax was that his vision was blurred. He had been holding his breath, then panting shallowly as the waves slowly began to recede. He sucked in a ragged, frantic lungful of air.

Then cried it back out when the warrior twisted his wrist, coating his hand with Anders’ seed before he resumed a steady, quick rhythm of firm jerks at the base of his shaft. A second hand descended, smoothing over his balls and perineum before sliding back up a bit to apply firm pressure to the root of Anders’ cock.

“Ah! Ah, shit, Fenris, oh shit, I can’t--”

Fenris knew what he was about: his dastardly grip skirted just along the edge between pleasure and torture. He avoided the sensitized head, but relentlessly maintained his firm grip and demanding pace along the shaft. Anders squirmed in shaky fits, his whole body shuddering at the overstimulation.

“One more… Anders, just… just one more… _venedhis,_ look at you. You are magnificent like this. I – I will stop – I can stop, if you tell me, but …” his voice broke off in a punctuated groan.

Anders had never seen the warrior so unraveled, nakedly pleading, his eyes all but entirely lost in blackness – and _fuck_ was it a sight to behold.

“Please,” Fenris groaned.

Anders was utterly ruined. And, thanks to the warrior’s heady plea, overwhelmingly aroused at the same time. His legs were shaking, his entire body taut like a livewire. Something in the back of his mind filed the request away – something they needed to discuss and explore, something he wanted more of, but also wanted more control over - but for now, he couldn’t think through to a logical decision if his life depended on it.

But, really, there was no way he could refuse such a naked, hungry request. And, apparently, his mouth didn’t need him to think. “Yes." Growling. “ _Fuck_ yes. But… I want to touch you,” he blurted, an unsteady hand reaching out to grasp the warrior’s belt. Words came pouring out between panted breaths, “Or at least.. let me watch you… fuck, Fenris, just thinking about it… ”

Fenris’s reply came as a one-handed scramble to hike up his belt and unfasten the clasp on his britches. Anders was still lost in the heady aftershocks, barely able to appreciate the sight of Fenris’s arousal springing free of those constricting leggings.

Throughout, Fenris’s hand never faltered in the maddeningly relentless and demanding pace on Anders’ deeply flustered cock - but once the warrior freed himself, his grip grew more urgent, more erratic. Fenris was pushing boundaries he’d never even known he had. And it was good. _Oh, Maker,_ it was rapture. 

Fenris licked Anders’ palm and guided it to the tip of his rampant erection. _Fucking hell,_ Fenris was so hard, so close – his girth was swollen and purple, every vein standing out with luscious urgency. The sight of his own pale fingers circling Fenris’s surprisingly thick cock was enough to push him right back to the brink that had seemed so far away mere moments before.

Anders couldn’t help but indulge in just a moment of appreciation; he slid his hand down Fenris’s length and held it, so warm, throbbing at the root as if it were a living, needy thing. He gave it a little wag, just to appreciate the sheer heft and weight of it in his hand, and suddenly words were pouring out of his mouth. “Maker, Fenris, I want to taste you… fuck, look at how hard you are, just look at this beautiful cock.”

Fenris’s breath stuttered out of him, his stomach muscles clenching as he thrust his hips up, mindlessly trying to find the friction he so desperately needed. Anders took the hint and moved his hand up, wrapping his fist around the shaft with his thumb curved inward so it lightly grazed against the warrior’s frenulum with each stroke. It was actually a lot easier to accomplish on Fenris than it was in his own frantic wanking sessions, as the angle was so much better this way.

And it clearly was working for Fenris. Anders looked back up and… _oh fuck,_ he had never seen anything hotter than Fenris’s face flushed, head tilted back, lips parted, gasping for air and moaning shamelessly. His hand on Anders’ shaft took up a desperate, fast rhythm, just below the crown, that made Anders cry out.

A dozen quick strokes, and Fenris was slouching forward, head on Anders’ neck, one hand leaving Anders’ root to reach up and brace against the wall. His arm rippled with sinew as his entire body seized. Warmth pooled in Anders’ hand, and the sound… oh, fuck, the sound Fenris made… a guttural groan that grew into a shout of ecstasy and release and that almost-pained quality of a staggering orgasm. Fenris’s voice has always been his weakness, but Fenris’s voice ripped from him by the ferocity of his climax – Anders was helpless in the face of it.

For the second time, he tumbled off the cliff.

He had no idea how long it lasted, only that he felt like his entire being was pouring out into Fenris’s palm. Perhaps there was something to be said for Warden stamina, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* * *

His laugh took him by surprise. The pair of them on the floor, legs sprawled out on the hard rock, backs against the wall, head on shoulder on head – it was absolutely insane to be snuggled up, fighting the heady drowsiness of toe-curling release. Well, it was insane in this context, anyways. So, Anders laughed.

The mutual release was absurd and amazing and preposterous. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… damn, Fenris. I think I like your particular methods for treating anxiety.”

A drowsy chuckle filled the room in response. “Better than sparring?”

Anders’ easy laugh blended with Fenris’s words in the faint reverberation of the small chamber. “Much better. Although the sparring helped a lot. I guess I was more, uh, down than anxious, back then.” He smiled lackadaisically. “Whatever. I like this. Let’s keep doing this.” He paused, still not entirely cogent, and added, “I should thank you. Aside from being amazing, that… helped. I didn’t even know I could do that. I know it varies, but I guess I’ve never tried to test my own refractory period.”

Fenris’s voice was soft, drowsy but practical, when he spoke - as if to disarm the strangeness of the encounter with a semblance of normalcy. “You do not appear to have a refractory period.” His head lolled lazily against Anders’ shoulder with another soft chuckle before he straightened a little, pulling a rag from his belt. “I am glad I can help. It is a relief to discharge some of the debt between us.”

“Debt? Are you serious?”

“You have done much for me.”

Anders frowned. He turned to scan the warrior’s face, wondering if he was making a sick joke. “You are serious. _Maker,_ Fenris, there’s no debt. Anything I did was because I wanted to. Probably selfishly, I might add. And you’ve probably saved _my_ life a half dozen times already.”

Fenris was quiet for a long moment. “I spoke poorly. It is not a debt, nor a competition. I wished to convey that I am pleased. To be of use, that is.” In the brief pause, Anders’ mind whirred back online, wondering if ‘of use’ had any connotations in Fenris’s dark past, and wondering if the warrior seriously thought those words – such an egregious understatement - could come anywhere close to explaining how essential Fenris was to him.

But then Fenris continued, voice even though his tone was unfamiliarly tinny. “I should have said grateful, not indebted. I do not think you realize how many small kindnesses you have shown me. Perhaps none but a slave could understand how confusing it is to be treated with consistent respect and… decency.”

“Care,” Anders amended, his heart clenching in his chest. “I treat you with respect and care because I respect and care for you. I secretly think you deserve a lot better, but I’m quite alright with you not realizing that.”

Fenris’s amused huff rustled the hair on the side of his head as he turned his head to plant an affectionate peck on Anders’ neck. “Fool mage,” he hummed. The naked affection in those words was undoubtedly the single most effective balm he had even encountered as a healer. Well, that, and the surprise kiss. Anders thought long and hard, and could not come up with a single memory of being kissed like that since being taken to the Circle – a brief, affectionate gesture entirely separate from seduction. It felt like being submerged in a lake of warm honey. _Do other people know about this? How could they. People would be kissing all the time…_

“Well. Thank you.” Anders turned his head down towards the warrior’s snowy head on his shoulder, breathing in his earthy scent. His eyes closed at the same time his stomach fluttered with an acute pang of… something. Longing? But that didn’t make sense, to long for someone that was right there. There had to be a better word, but Anders didn’t know it.

“I’d like to hear about it, you know, when you feel like sharing. About your life… before. What you remember.”

“There is not much to tell, but I will answer any questions you have. Although… I would prefer to wait until we leave this place.”

Anders nodded; he understood. There were plenty of specters in the shadows here without bringing up the ghosts of the past. "Right. Speaking of which..." he groaned and stretched, standing a little shakily, before holding a hand out to the warrior. Fenris hauled himself up and offered a rag to Anders before wiping himself up hastily. He made quick work of buckling on his gauntlets and gloves, and retrieving his sword, while Anders did likewise with his pack and staff.

Suddenly, he felt the need to clarify; he twisted at the waist to face Fenris. The warrior lifted his head, meeting his eyes, as Anders added firmly, “I want to know everything you want to tell me, and no more. You have a right to your privacy.”

And then the Lyrium Ghost’s head tilted, like a confused puppy. “I… alright.” A pause. “You… you are… not what I expected.”

Anders snorted; the understatement was as egregious as they came. “Yeah. You’re not at all what I expected either.” At some point he realized he was still staring like an idiot, and busied himself stuffing the soiled rag into his pouch. Fenris elbowed him playfully and nodded toward the door. He let Anders out, closed and locked the door, and ghosted back through.

Back on the staircase, silence pervaded for a time; a near total absence of sound aside from the soft tread of his boots on the stone steps, but it was a warm and contented thing.

Anders' mind wandered, and at some point, his musings spilled out of his mouth, seemingly of their own volition. “You know… you asked if I was alright, and I think maybe I am. Part of my reaction to that lyrium is Justice, I think - I honestly think he is still in there. I think he… helped me, when I was trying to regain control in that room, the first time. And I think there is something in him that recoils around that lyrium, the red stuff. It was more… I don’t know, familiar, back in that cave, surrounded by those crystals. Good ole’ disapproving spirit stuff.”

He bit his lip, thinking aloud. “It’s funny… when I first met Justice, I kept asking him about the difference between spirits and demons, but he honestly didn’t know. Well, at first he said that demons were spirits ‘perverted by their desires’, but then he said he didn’t know - that it made him angry, but he didn’t understand it. But, well, he didn’t want to know the difference. He didn’t want to understand demons. ‘More than you could possibly know,’ that’s what he said to me. This was his worst fear. And I’m inflicting it upon him.”

Fenris sighed, a soft and sated sound, rather than the usual irritation. “I do not pretend to understand your connection, but your apprehension is plain.” A few silent steps separated one thought from the next. “If we are being honest, my concern is that it has left you weakened at the worst possible time.”

“Yeah. Honestly, I’m very worried about him. As a person, and as my friend.”

Fenris nodded, his voice distracted and distant when he replied, “And as the last resort fighter who has been removed from the field.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, the credits: recognition and all the kudos to GammaCavy, who provided the original line I bastardized in this chapter (original: “I am very concerned about Justice. As a person, as Anders' friend, and as the last resort fighter who just seems to have been removed from the field.”) Thank you so much, not just for the amazing comments, but for letting me steal (with credit and permission) your catchy phrases (and insults). 
> 
> LORE TIME!! The magical self-filling, self-purifying basin is canon (from The Calling and The Stolen Throne), as is the glowstone from last chapter (basically all the novels, as well as the RPG). Tevinter also apparently has massive drills, which I alluded to here - I will edit this later to link to a screenshot, because I can't think of where I saw this in DAI but I know I have a capture. Last, there are several banters in DAI about red lyrium being hot. I mean... if it's alive... maybe just freeze it? *shrug* 
> 
> Regarding the repetitive floors: I almost added a line about re-using the same map over and over, but still enjoying the ride... but that seemed a little too on the nose, lol XD 
> 
> ** Chapter has been updated, now with more banter, fewer typos, and less confusing smut! **


	29. Enigma - Red and Black

Merrill was the only one in the concourse room on the ninth floor when they arrived. She was bent over a kettle suspended above a small magical flame, and she perked up when they entered, hastily explaining that Varric and Aveline had decided to investigate another tunnel. Merrill had apparently bemoaned another trip up those ‘blighted stairs’ and offered to cook up dinner instead.

Anders smiled in spite of himself. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one not eager to traverse the stairs again. Their trip had been cut short by a cave-in about half an hour from the site of their ill-advised romp, though the debris had been so specifically confined to the staircase that Anders suspected it was somehow a result of intentional tampering. He had briefly considered a tightly focused force spell to clear the blockage, but feared bringing the whole tunnel down atop them. And so, with little gained aside from some creative stress relief and the disturbing knowledge about the presence of red lyrium, they returned to the rally point.

Merrill was downright hovering over her kettle of soup - salt pork, barley and mushrooms – and soon turned her attention back to it. She appeared to harbor some unusual notions about cooking. From what Anders could tell, it required making small noises and speaking to the recipe as if to coax it into cooking properly - _Tut tut, come now, beasties, you’ve got to work together, there we go –_ but Anders was hungry enough that his only thought on the matter was the hope that it worked.

Anders and Fenris dropped their packs and settled in, and Anders set to work reallocating various small relics and papers into his satchels and belt pouch to clear space in his pack for future looting. He was surprised to find he was enjoying the odd refrain of Merrill encouraging her soup. Interspersed with Merrill’s broth-whispering, the three of them made small talk, filling in some details of their respective explorations.

At some point, she pulled bowls from her pack and served up the concoction; it was warm and filling, spiced with an unfamiliar blend of herbs, and altogether a surprisingly good meal. It helped that Anders was famished, certainly, as hunger was the most decadent spice to any meal.

“This is good. Thank you, Merrill. What sort of spices did you use for the broth?”

“Oh, the usual things - ironbark syrup, fermented rashvine sap, blood, bay leaf, mint, juniper berries…”

Anders nearly spit out a mouthful of soup before he noticed the grin on Merrill’s face. She watched him, enormous eyes twinkling, and he swallowed thickly. “You’re joking.” Somehow, he’d never realized that Merrill had a sense of humor.

“Well, yes, silly. About the blood, anyways. The rest is pretty normal Dalish fare – whatever can be scavenged, really. Broth is not too picky. Say, I’ve always wondered – do you think the word ‘brothel’ has anything to do with broth?”

Fenris opened his mouth, closed it again, and resumed eating. Anders decided he had the right of things, and replied with an ambiguous gesture.

Partway through dinner, the pleasant silence was interrupted by heavy clanking from one of the passageways; Anders reached back for his staff, but Fenris stilled him with a raised hand. “Hawke,” he announced calmly.

Hawke and Izzy emerged into the concourse, looked around, and filed in for soup with barely a how-de-do. Anders’ heart went out to them – both women looked right exhausted. A short time later, Fenris looked up and declared “Aveline,” moments before the guard captain stormed - red-faced and out of breath - from one of the tunnels, a grouchy-looking Varric behind her.

“Right,” she announced without preamble. “The City Guard has been deployed to investigate the passages leading from this chamber, and then to seal the entrance we discovered up there, as well as any other entrances to the surface. That tunnel back there,” she announced, pointing to the one they just emerged from, “is blocked partway up.”

“I hope you warned the Guard that there are blood mages down here…”

Aveline gave Hawke a testy glare. “Of course.”

“Not to be a downer, but… there are probably hundreds of secret doorways and hidden tunnels down here. Does it really matter if the Guard manages to seal a few up, or cave a few in?”

“Yes, Varric, it matters. Every sealed tunnel is a possible disaster averted. Should we ignore the slavers and blood mages simply because we cannot hope to eradicate them all?”

Varric conceded the point with a grumble.

“I should probably mention…” Anders began, trying and failing to think of a casual way to segue into their discoveries. “We found more of that lyrium – the red stuff, remember, like we found in that old thaig?”

He rushed to continue as the predictable stunned silence settled over the companions. “It was in a cave, about half an hour up. Absolutely teeming with the stuff, but no idols or anything,” he cast an apologetic glance at Varric. “Oh, and the lyrium was hot, and made a weird noise when I froze it. Also, Fenris got attacked by a… thing. I don’t know. It looked like an elf, but… I dunno, a really sick elf. And it had weird red claws. And red eyes. And it was wearing a Grey Warden cloak. It might have stolen the cloak, though. And there was also a single furnished chamber beside the cave with fresh bread.” The words spilled out in a jumble as Anders rushed to get the relevant facts out before the party could react.

He glanced at Fenris, who had set down his bowl of soup and folded his arms when Anders began his litany. Now the warrior’s lips were rolled in a thin line, struggling to contain his amusement. If the warrior’s expression were to be described with one word, it would be, ‘seriously?’

The heavy silence was broken by Varric, voice thick and angry, “Good.”

Hawke started, and Anders could practically see the distance she had to travel back to the present moment. “What did you say?”

“You heard me - I said ‘good’. We came down here to find out if there was a danger to Kirkwall, and if the tunnels reached the surface, and I’d say we’ve sure as hell proved both now. So, good, mission accomplished. Let’s get the hell out of here and bury this place – maybe the Circle mages can flood the place, or, I don’t know! We’ve got our answer though. This place, that stuff – it’s all bad news, Hawke.”

“Right, but you can't possibly think that it will all just go away if we ignore it. If you want to help Kirkwall, we need information. And there’s so much more we can learn down here. That folio says the Magisters came here looking for something--”

“Well, maybe they came here looking for that damn lyrium! They’re evil, it’s evil, who the hell cares?” Varric shifted restlessly, and Anders felt his exasperation at the oversimplification melt under a pang of guilt. Varric was, easily, the most personally affected by their discoveries.

“But what about the creature, and the Grey Warden cloak? I can’t help but think we’re missing something here. There’s so much we don’t know.” Anders sighed, slouching under the weight of the seemingly disparate mysteries. “I mean, maybe the better question is what do we know? We’re somewhere under Kirkwall, but somewhere above and to the south of that damned thaig where Bartrand tried to murder us.”

“You know what, blondie, maybe this will help you put things into perspective: A… ahem, a contact of mine in the Merchant’s Guild did some research, and thinks that red stuff is blighted.”

“That can’t be true. You yourself said the thaig was prehistoric, that it had been lost from history,” Hawke interrupted. “How could the Blight have gotten in?”

“Yeah, that sounds fishy to me. I mean, blighted lyrium?” Anders’ mind retreated from the implications of that statement; it was too much, too big and far-reaching. He needed some time and distance to properly sort through the possibility… and, honestly, some damned sunlight wouldn’t hurt.

“Well, so what?” Izzy chimed in. “There’s dangerous shit down here. I mean, I think we knew that already. Maybe we could just ignore the doors and try to get a good look at the lowest floors. Anders thinks there’s good loot down here.” She shrugged, the very picture of practicality.

“And, come on Varric – if we go tell people that there’s blood mages and a weird strain of lyrium down here, what do you think will happen? Meredith is going to find out, and she’s going to flip a gasket.”

“Well, so ask for help from the Chantry, or the Divine or something…”

Anders tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “That’s… not better.”

“Well, what do you--” Varric’s frustrated protest was cut off as Hawke cut in, her voice sharp like the crack of whip. “Enough! That's more than enough squabbling from you two. Save it for the actual enemies. Now. Anders. You said there was a chamber that had recent occupants? Bread? Do you have any idea who it belongs to?”

“No idea. Definitely not the creature - I think that thing was eating the lyrium. It said something about ‘no guests at the banquet’, but there was nothing in that cave except lyrium. Now that I think about it, the thing had claws that were very… crystal-like…”

“Right. Great. So, to summarize: blood magic and weird lyrium are busy fucking over Kirkwall, and Tevinter mages and possibly the Blight have been gently guiding their hips from behind.”

Anders couldn't suppress a fond smirk - Hawke certainly had a way with words - but Aveline frowned at the vulgarity. “Quite the visual. Thanks, Hawke.”

Merrill stirred then, voicing her thoughts with an apologetic look. “Well, we know better what to avoid, now, and wouldn’t it be better for us to deal with any more of those awful mages, rather than wait for them to creep up to the city proper?” Aveline and Hawke nodded at her words, but Varric looked like he was going to be ill.

“I’d like to know more about that cave-in,” Merrill asked solemnly. “Didn’t you tell me earlier that the staircase looked like it had been intentionally caved in, Anders? What did it look like? Or, oh, I suppose I should be asking you, Fenris – you would notice things like that. Did you come?”

“I’m… sorry?”

Anders’ attention snapped to Fenris. He leaned forward, practically quivering. This was his favorite genre of a newly discovered interest of his, a hobby he had mentally dubbed ‘other people attempting to interact with Fenris’. This particular genre of said hobby, the rare but incredible ‘accidental innuendo’ - because, really, almost all innuendo was intentional and heavy-handed, and Fenris picked up on that in a heartbeat - it was… well. This particular category was the best by far. He held his breath, waiting for the response.

“Oh, it's just - Anders said there was a pile of rubble past the cave where you found the lyrium, but you had been attacked by the… thing. Did you stay behind, or were you with Anders?”

Fenris cleared his throat, all his stoicism and damnable calm wilting like wax in the mid-day sun. “I… did, I- yes. We were… together. I saw the cave-in.” The warrior’s eyes flicked to meet Anders’, but there was no quarter there – Anders was awash in mischievous glee. _Oh, Maker, he’s blushing. This… this is the best thing that’s ever happened…_

Fenris glowered at him a moment and straightened. “The tunnel. Yes. There was no other indication of instability in the staircase, no fault lines, and the cave-in was very narrowly contained to a small section of the roof. Light could be seen reflecting off stone behind the rubble, not even a span away. So, yes, I suspect the ceiling was damaged intentionally, and by someone knowledgeable of such things.”

_Ah well, it was good while it lasted._

Merrill’s gaze flickered from Anders to Fenris and back a few times, but she gave no indication of her thoughts. “Well, wouldn’t that suggest that someone was trying to block the path down to the lyrium? Perhaps we have allies we don’t know about.”

Anders tapped a finger to his lip in thought. “Huh. That’s… I hadn’t thought of that.”

The group fell silent for a time, and Anders stood, restlessly pacing the length of the large concourse. At last, he broke the silence with a frustrated noise. “Augh! I knew I should have paid more attention during history classes at the Circle. I can’t quite wrap my head around what kind of timeline we’re dealing with down here. When was Tevinter founded? Somewhere around -1200 Ancient, yeah?”

Fenris made a pained sound. “I have never been adept at the Chantry calendar. The Imperium was founded in 0 TE, and it is presently Cassus of 2030 TE.”

“Cassus?” Merrill lilted in her most confused brogue.

“Bah, Haring, or whatever you call the twelfth month.”

“Right, so Tevinter was founded about 2000 years ago. And then, according to Genitivi anyways, they established Kirkwall, or, well, Emerius, in -620 Ancient… six hundred years later or so. But, according the so-called Band of Three, they came here looking for something in particular. And then in -395 Ancient, the Magisters taint the Golden City and bring about the First Blight, at least according to the Chantry.”

Anders paced some more. “When did the Empire lose control of the city?”

“-25 Ancient is when Kirkwall became, well, Kirkwall,” Varric chimed in.

“So, we have the breach of the Golden City about two hundred years after the Vints claim Kirkwall. Meanwhile, they stick around here, doing blood magic and Maker knows what else for a total of about 600 years. Add in the fact that, a few days from here, supposedly there may be blight developing in a thaig that was lost before recorded history. And now there is more of the red stuff... and, well, at least three different types of magic involved. The Magisters use regular, vanilla Veil magic, and lyrium, and blood magic. And if Varric’s contact is correct, we may even be dealing with the magic of the Blight. A royal flush.”

Izzy’s face pinched together like she was sucking on a lemon. “Wait, wait, what? There are different types of magic?”

“Well, yeah – I thought that was common knowledge. Mages pull from across the Veil, and something about lyrium enhances that, but it can also be a stand-alone thing, like with Templars. Blood magic is fueled by, well, blood, and the stuff Darkspawn use comes from the Taint, or the Old Gods, or… something. I don’t actually know. It’s probably just a different form of blood magic, related to their tainted blood. The same Taint that will turn people into ghouls if they get Darkspawn blood in their system and manage to survive.”

Apparently the existence of Blight magic - or, really, the notion that magic wasn't all the same - was not common knowledge. All his companions, save Merrill, looked distinctly unnerved by the revelation.

Anders ignored the predictable reaction. He was too preoccupied sorting through the known facts. And he was frustrated. He had a feeling that there was some connection he was missing, something important, but he couldn’t isolate it from the swirling fog of half-baked thoughts, partially relevant facts, and foolish speculation that was clogging up his mental faculties. 

“Right, well… unless you have some grand revelation, I vote we keep moving. I don’t know about you lot, but I’d like to find a place to lay a bedroll – preferably somewhere without dozens of tunnels for blood mages and sick elf-like creatures to sneak up on us.” Hawke was looking uncharacteristically flustered, and Anders silently cursed himself for repeatedly referencing the pestilence that had stolen so much from her.

His thoughts skidded to a halt as a bone-chilling howl rang through the stone chamber, prefacing a rumbling that quaked the floor beneath the party. Corpses - a dozen, no, two dozen, more - seemed to crawl from the very bedrock, their armor hanging off bones in various states of decay.

The fog in Anders’ mind dissipated, burned off in the rays of cold reason. A fight: now, there was something tangible, something he could do something about. He snatched his staff from where he had propped it against his nearby pack, and settled into the familiar calm of battle.

He grasped at threads across the Veil and _pulled,_ weaving a massive wall of arcane magic that hovered insubstantially around each companion. The size of their group made it unwieldy, but Anders had followed the evidence to its logical conclusion in the span of an eye blink, and blood magic was the most probable cause as well as their greatest vulnerability. The risk one of their companions would pose if enslaved was too great, and defense was all he could offer in that regard.

His suspicions were confirmed shortly thereafter, when a cluster of mages took turns darting their heads out from one of the passageways long enough to gain line of sight for their spells. The gang rallied in record time, and the battle began in earnest.

Maintaining barriers and the defensive wall for all six companions, plus himself, was taxing, but he slowly began to notice that his magic was significantly stronger down here in the tunnels. The weakness in the Veil apparently made his connection to the Fade even stronger. Regardless, they were severely outnumbered; corpses sprang from the ground nearly as fast as the party could down them.

A remote part of his mind registered a vague sense of nostalgia; he was acutely aware of how comfortable he had become fighting alongside Fenris alone. Even their regular party of four was a relatively gratifying routine.

Here, packed in cramped quarters and amidst the mayhem, he was achingly conscious of the spells he couldn’t access without Justice, as well as the concentration required to keep seven people alive and useful. Corpses - weak little things on their own - were inflicting heavy damage by virtue of their numbers and the relative probability of a lucky strike. Varric seemed to be struggling to get a clean shot though the pandemonium, and Anders was unable to complete an offensive weave before another companion was injured. He had no choice but to entreat his spirit ally to aid him from across the Veil; there was no way this fight ended well unless he focused solely on healing.

But that essentially removed him from the offensive pool, and in conjunction with the ever-increasing quantities of corpses in the way, this meant that Merrill was the only one actually attacking the mages – the root of the problem. Moreover, within the first few minutes of the bedlam, Izzy got caught in the radius of a cloud of entropic magic released by Merrill, and then Aveline took one of Varric’s crossbow bolts to the shoulder. Thankfully, it was a through-and-through shot; the spell Anders used to condense and focus his spirit ally’s aura made both accidents an easy fix with a standard healing weave.

It seemed a long time before, at last, the mages in the corridor succumbed to Merrill’s magic and a few good shots from Bianca. Anders felt a wave of relief and lethargy wash over him. He retained the spirit’s aid, probing nearby companions as they finished the last of the risen corpses, seeking any lingering injuries to address.

A shout rang out behind him. Anders whirled, then paled.

At least a dozen more mages clustered around the large cavern entrance to the concourse. As he watched, three of them produced daggers from the depths of their robes. He was weaving defenses in the same heartbeat. _Arcane wall. Barriers. Maker, let it be enough._

Two of the mages sliced into their palms. The third, a skinny, disheveled young man, made eye contact with him for a brief moment before dragging the blade lengthwise down his forearm. _Shit. That’s a lot of blood. He’s willing to die for this, whatever ‘this’ is._

Pandemonium.

Shades descended on the group en masse, followed by a staggering number of corpses. Anders’ barriers flickered up and were annihilated in rapid succession. At some point, he faintly heard Hawke shouting that there was another group in one of the unexplored passageways, and he scrambled towards her voice. _We need to get out of the open, get somewhere more defensible._

The rest of the group soon followed suit, but the situation did not improve much. Just inside the passageway, they met an elbow in the stone, forcing them into a sharp right turn, followed by a steep flight of stairs with landings at regular intervals. Now they were fighting on two fronts: a smaller group of mages pressing them from above with powerful demonic pets, and a much larger group summoning all manner of shades and corpses behind them.

“AVELINE,” Hawke bellowed. “Up front! Put that shield to use! Izzy – front. Fenris, Varric – you stay with Merrill at the rear. Anders in the middle.” Anders pressed against the wall as the disorderly shuffle ensued. He took advantage of the tight confines to thread a blanket of rejuvenation over the group; he couldn’t be the only one feeling drained after the prolonged chaos.

Once positions were assumed, Aveline and Hawke charged up the stairs to draw attention away from Izzy, who was stealthily darting towards the assailants above them on the stairs. Meanwhile, Anders caught glimpses of Fenris at the mouth of the stairway, wheeling between shades, mages, and corpses like a creature from legends, hacking and ghosting and whirling and slaughtering with singular ferocity. Merrill and Varric hugged the edges of the passageway, ducking out from cover to launch volleys of crossbow and lighting bolts into the mob.

Anders staggered between both groups; the onslaught was relentless on both fronts, and he couldn’t maintain barriers long enough to properly focus on one group alone.

 _Wirium – where are the damn wirium vials?_ The runed box was somewhere in his pack, which he had foolishly left in the concourse below. _Damnit!_

The divided focus was taking its toll; by the time he raced from one group and got within casting range of the other, the warriors were sporting fresh injuries. And something else was bothering him - each time he cycled between fronts, it felt like the trip was taking longer. No, it _was_ taking longer; the mages on the stairway above them were retreating, while those below them weren’t pressing the advantage.

Which, frankly, made no sense. Why wouldn’t they enter the stairway, where their group would be less mobile and more susceptible to large-area magic attacks?

_Oh, fuck._

He cupped his hands, hollering up the stairs. “WAIT! They’re trying to split us up – Hawke, wait! We’re being driven apart!”

It was no good. Hawke’s party was on a landing high above, all but out of sight. Behind him, Fenris was the lone companion at the mouth of the staircase, facing a veritable army of shades while Varric and Merrill fought at range from the elbow. Anders wanted to call the same warning to Fenris, but was terrified that even a brief distraction could prove fatal.

His options narrowed considerably; he weighed and discarded several half-baked plans, his thoughts racing with an almost supernatural speed on the wave of adrenaline. In moments, at the other side of the frenzied parade of thoughts, he had a plan.

In the fewest words possible, he barked the observation in warning to Merrill and Varric while simultaneously pulling two wisps across the Veil. He poured himself into them, siphoning off as much mana as he could while keeping his other weaves active. The barrier wisp he targeted at Fenris; the ambient, generalized restoration wisp drifted between all three companions.

The lyrium was bitter and sharp on his lips as he bounded up the stairs, resolutely ignoring the protests of his overtaxed body. He heard a distant cry from Izzy. _I’m coming_ , he thought, unable to draw the breath required to shout the reassurance aloud.

More of the landing came into view with each step, and his concern grew more acute as he realized none of his companions were on it.

 _There -_ a narrow, arched passage on the left side of the landing. He stumbled and leaned against the side of the passageway, gasping for breath, eyes passing restlessly over the scene before him.

Izzy was on the floor, clutching her abdomen. Blood bloomed in pools around her fingers.

His spirit ally’s aura was drawn to the grievous wound without his conscious direction; simultaneously, his fingers wove a desperate revival web to penetrate the deep wound, while his mind continued to piece together the scene before him.

Aveline was shouting, drowned out in the ringing of a blade repeatedly battering against her shield.

Hawke’s blade.

The shock would creep in later, surely, but Anders body reacted before he had time to think or feel. The weave was unfamiliar, something he had learned in the Circle and immediately disregarded as useless; a telekinetic barrier, crackling and hissing threads of spirit magic, sprouted around the warrior. It was a paralyzing spell, but also a barrier - it would both protect the warrior and render her immobile, keep her from harming others.

The weave was not elegantly deployed, but it held. Hawke was frozen in a howl of rage, greatsword midway through a frenzied swing.

No time. Two mages remained, huddled against the far wall of the rectangular room; one of them must be controlling Hawke’s mind. _Kill them, free the warrior_. He felt only a hint of worry at releasing the boon of his spiritual ally, but it was time to mount an offense.

His staff swung in an exaggerated figure eight; it was dangerous, opening himself this widely to the Fade, but there was no path forward from this moment that was safe – no help was coming, no miraculous happy endings to be had.

Anders felt the tiny pinpricks as hairs across his arms and neck stood on end. He was not raging - no, he was calm, a sheltered haven, as the storm popped into existence from the core of his reckless weave. The tempest that swept through the bare stone chamber was a manifestation of focus, not chaos, but the results were the same. Thunder, so close as to happen concomitantly with the brilliant flash of lightning, left his ears ringing, all other sound muffled.

Which made it all the more unnerving when he heard, clearly and distinctly, an unearthly, guttural chuckle from above.

_Crack._

Something enormous landed on the stone floor behind him. Anders whirled. Another chuckle, low and malevolent and crystal clear, as if coming from inside his own head, burrowing into his mind like a parasite.

The creature roared; unlike the chuckle, this sound was dull in his still-ringing ears, but the odious spray of spittle, the fetid stench of its breath, assaulted his other senses.

It was, easily, the largest pride demon Anders had ever laid eyes upon.

It spoke in a perverse polyphonic duality of voice that sent shivers up his spine. “The seals are gone. Foolish wards held by pretenders. Aspects. The true source is missing, the power unheld. But I... command a piece.”

Anders let the words seep into his mind for later scrutiny, and also realized - and immediately added to the ‘later’ list - that the creature who had attacked Fenris had the same polyphonic quality to its voice. That was the thing about the attack he hadn’t been able to nail down.

But, for now, he was too far beyond the pale, too strung out to bother with demonic riddles. Anders looked back to see Izzy struggling to her feet, Aveline bracing her. The blood mages were motionless, sprawled across the floor in the wake of his lightning. Hawke was still caged, but the weave was fraying. He pulled threads of spirit to re-weave it, but his link to the Fade was dwindling; too many sustained spells, too much power exerted in the tempest.

In that moment, Hawke broke free of the field. She staggered, momentum lost, looking confused. A heartbeat later, she lunged at Aveline and Izzy, sword upraised, an unnatural fire gleaming behind her eyes. _No - the mages can’t still be alive – the mind control should have died with them!_

As if to mock his confidence, one of the blood mages stirred, hacking.

A second lyrium bottle shattered beside him, though he hardly remembered pulling and drinking the potion. The hum of mana coursed through his veins like tiny shards of glass. It was dangerous to use too much lyrium. But, at the moment, it was dangerous to not. His options seemed to fall away by the minute, dwindling to some inevitable outcome he could not yet foresee.

He patched the force field around Hawke just as the demon grew impatient by its distracted audience. “I AM HYBRIS,” it roared. “Fragments of every fool who held a throne, here or in the black. I am pride with reason. I enslave the whims and wyrds, the dreams from the other side of the Veil. Face me! Face everything!”

Without a hint of warning, claws - heat and pain - tore down Anders’ back - w _here did that rage demon even come from?_ \- and it wasn’t a blur or a generalized agony: he felt every inch of those talons, their downward progress, every excruciating detail of his skin shredding like old seams. His wail was muffled by another bellow of the approaching pride demon, and all around, more shades and rage demons heeded its call, bursting across the Veil. They filled the air with shrieks and gibbering.

 _I'm getting sloppy._ The warning pierced the white-hot pain with its urgency. He couldn't make mistakes like failing to notice the lesser demons behind him. Mistakes like that would get him killed.

The fastest spell he could manage was a blast of paralyzing frost, and he released the weave moments before the rage demon brought its claws to bear on his flesh for a second time. It was a temporary measure, but he gained another moment to resist, to fight this impossible fight.

His attention snapped back to the pride demon. He threw every delaying tactic in his arsenal at the beast; most of his weaves slid off the powerful creature, too weak to snare it, but he landed a few lucky strikes.

Anders’ resolve wavered, then coalesced. No, this was not the end. Voice like a whiplash, he cried out to Aveline, to Izzy, to Justice and anyone who might listen. 

His hands were threading the next spell, a blizzard, even as he attempted to rally the others. A strange thing happened, then, but he registered it as merely another thing to sort out later. Just as the first wave of supernatural cold ripped across the field, freezing the enemy mage’s blood into crimson ice in their veins and bursting the pride demon’s joints like sap-filled trees, he felt another weave blend in with his own. Water poured into the blizzard, drops freezing into crystal blades that whirled in the storm, rending demonic flesh. He staggered backwards, trying to reach Aveline, trying to call a barrier to protect himself from the indifferent storm.

He managed both, but not quickly; by the time he joined his companions, flesh dangled off him in bloody ribbons.

The third vial of lyrium was the last in his pouch, and it caused his head to blur, his blood to sing with a strung-out mania. Toxicity levels be damned; he would not make Fenris mourn him without a bloody brilliant fight.

Options, so very few now, paraded through his mind. One of the two mages stubbornly refused to die. Right. _Mages first. Hawke. Hawke can rally the others._ The crushing prison leapt into existence around the stirring blood mage. He couldn’t be bothered to watch the bastard's brutal end.

Aveline had left Izzy's side to taunt the demon, drawing its ire. Hybris was laughing. Next to Anders, a blue vortex of light flickered into existence. Almost immediately, he felt the pull of it, the weight it added to each step. Izzy was nowhere to be seen – _stealth, hopefully –_ and so he focused solely on fleeing the vortex.

A sharp noise, the indescribably sound of bones cracking and joints dislocating, filtered through the din just as he felt his crushing prison dissolve. _Finally._ With grim satisfaction, Anders released his telekinetic field around Hawke. She stumbled, disoriented, and took in the scene for all of two heartbeats before rushing to join Aveline at the front lines.

The rest of the battle dissolved into a thready hum of exhaustion overpowered by lyrium-induced mania and the resolve of the desperate. He was so preoccupied with the battle that his healing was spotty at best, but he _fought_. He fought with everything he had, and reserves he had never been desperate enough to call upon. Dividing his focus as many times as he could manage, he threaded magic to keep his companions alive, to keep the summoned demons at bay, to snare and harry the monstrous pride demon. He wove every spell in his arsenal with reckless abandon, teetering on the edge of madness.

And then a voice sent the whole flimsy house of cards tumbling. A deep, familiar voice, a voice that set his spine crawling and his frayed nerves exploding with panic. “There you are, little spirit. I’ve been looking for you.”

Anders whirled; his blurred vision could not discern more than a medium-sized, man-shaped…thing, face shrouded behind a bronze mask.

Anders, bleeding, torn and drained by every definition of the word, felt his lips curl in the most unexpected grin, the smile of the damned. Of course. His dreams made manifest were the last piece of this impossible struggle. Why would this creature of nightmare _not_ appear now, here, in the most hopeless fight of his life?

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The masked man made a noise, and a long whip of emerald fire erupted in his hand, drawn – hissing and crackling - from nowhere.

Anders felt something in him crawling, clawing, keening. He saw the whip raise up. He felt something in his belt pouch rattle and vibrate as if it were coming alive.

And then there was blackness streaming from his hands, seeping out of him from every rent in his flesh, every bloodied ribbon of skin.

It was unquestionably magic, but it was utterly wrong. There was no sense of the Fade in the spell, no familiar weave or pull from across the Veil, nothing of spirits or demons - just a blackened bolt of darkness, forked, hissing, malignant. The spectral abyss tore at the nearby demons, whipped through the room without his direction; were it not emanating from him, he would have been searching for magic-wielding Darkspawn. He felt the shockwave, though, felt the blackness explode in a massive nova of concussive force.

And then the blackness came for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LORE TIME!! Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed that the battle (boss abilities, allies and location) from waaaayyyy back in chapter 2 was a text-based version of the only unnamed Arcane Horror in the Awiergan Scrolls saga – the Third Aspect. So, uh, yeah – Hybris was a long time coming. In game, we meet this crazy bastard in 'the tunnels beneath Anders' clinic', so I mean... why not. I also find his dialogue a little... tinfoil-inducing. WTF with this 'here or in the black' nonsense...
> 
> Also, I know Varric doesn’t really speak to Bianca about red lyrium until DAI, but they’re both in Kirkwall around this time, and I don’t see why it couldn’t happen now *shrug*. Also relevant, I didn’t realize that Red Templars were associated with Kirkwall until I saw [this caption](https://imgur.com/a/r51THup/) in WoTv2. If the 'shrk-shrk' creature's dialogue seems familiar, it's an echo of Kolg's journal ramblings from the Descent...
> 
> As for Anders and his Taint (always remember the capital T), Gaider said in [an interview](https://swooping-is-bad.livejournal.com/1286233.html) that there were a couple options for how that could play out: “One is that the spirit within Anders can affect the level of his corruption, so it may delay or remove the necessity for his Calling altogether. Either that or at some point the corruption within Anders is going to corrupt the spirit.” So, I know there’s a lot to be said on that, and I personally am playing with an ‘and’ rather than an ‘or’, but for the purposes of this chapter, let’s just say that with Justice weakened (corrupted??), the Taint is more… accessible?
> 
> There’s a lot of interesting stuff (and a lot of unanswered questions) about Blight magic in the DA:O DLC, and you can get Warden’s Keep quests in DA2, so this is not quite as random as it might seem at first glance! The descriptions in this chapter are largely lifted from The Last Flight novel. But, really, Ferelden has a single hermit researching Blight magic in a tower in the mountains… surely Tevinter has loads more research and Blight-magic-relic-things... rather than just a dippy alchemical concoction. 
> 
> Lastly, the reason for the timeline in this chapter was largely just me thinking aloud, and I thought it might be nice for others to get some semblance of the order of events when considering the Engima. The dates are drawn from WoTv2, the wikia, and [this blog](http://www.dumpeddrunkanddalish.com/2018/08/the-dragon-age-timeline-and-tale-of.html) run by a very highly recommended DA nerd. 
> 
> Did I miss anything? Sheesh.


	30. Sunlight

Blackness. Pure, unmitigated darkness.

In the moments following the nova, a heavy blanket of silence descended, stilling the chaos of the room as if the world itself held its breath.

Anders felt as though he were suspended in the darkness, the silence. The sensory deprivation robbed him of all continuity. Even his heartbeat - that internal mechanism that anchored awareness to the passage of time - felt muffled and blurry.

It felt as though the whole world waited in that dark and silent place.

* * *

His mind fluttered through inchoate thoughts and random images, as if to fill the void of the external world. He saw a bronze mask, heard an inhumanly deep chuckle, felt again the panic as darkness poured in a torrent of black flame from his own body.

The images abruptly vanished. A new image painted itself across his mind’s eye. Sunlight, golden and warm. _Oh, I miss that. What must it do to a person, to work down here as those researchers did, cut off from the light?_ He saw glimpses of hundreds of people, tucked away in tiny rooms, like little ants.

The internal parade of image shifted, more subtly this time, and he was back in the sunlight. A field, somewhere. _A farm?_ Some part of him was amused that his subconscious preferred the agrarian countryside.

But that small part faded, and he was still in a grassy field. And, oh, it was warm here. Sunny. Green. Everything the City of Kirkwall was not. Everything the Maker-forsaken tunnels _definitely_ were not.

The field _was_ warm, and the air stirred with a gentle breeze. It was summer now. The apple trees, laden with fragrant blossoms, lined fields of wheat and embrium. Time slipped by unnoticed, unhurried, as he breathed the summer air, perfumed with apple blossom and rich soil and green grass and life.

Anders stretched out in the grass and turned his face up to the sun.

“This is unexpected. I thought you wanted to help the Circle mages.”

Anders lazily turned his head to the voice, but the sun was in his eyes. “I do? Well, they can come here, too.”

“I thought you wanted to fight injustice, avenge the wrongs perpetrated upon you and your kind.”

Anders felt a niggling confusion creep in, a cloud over this otherwise perfect day. “Who are you?”

The voice came a little nearer as the sun-bleached shape crouched. “You know me, Anders.”

“…You? That’s impossible.”

“Oh?”

“You’re…” Anders struggled a moment, a wave of dysphoria washing over him. Something wasn’t right; the sunlight dimmed, fractionally. _Where did those clouds come from?_ “You’re inside me. How is it that you’re here?”

“You are… very weak, and gravely injured.” The voice was gentle, and sad.

“Oh.” He plucked blindly at the grass beneath his hand, reluctant to let anything intrude on this tranquil place - but the words lingered in the back of his mind, reverberating with incongruous weight. “So, what, I’m hallucinating you?”

“It would seem likely. Though, perhaps I am just more… myself, this close to the Veil.”

“Hmm. Those options sound like the kind of thing I would say.”

“True.”

“Well… alright then.” He paused, a thought creeping in from some other place. “There was blackness everywhere. Do you know what that was?”

“Yes.”

“What? That’s not an answer.”

The light-shrouded figure gave a shrug; something about the movement was almost coy. “You know what it was. If you wish it, you will soon be able to discover _why_ it was.”

The sunlight dimmed still further. Anders wanted the voice to go away, to let him rest.

“Come now, Anders. Time to go back.”

“Why?”

“I may have misunderstood the goal, but you have a mission. You have work to do. And people who wait for you.”

People who…

Anders scrambled to his feet and looked around. The sky was covered in dark clouds, now. The grass was still warm, but the sunlight was lost. _Where is…_ “Fenris?” he called. “Fenris!”

* * *

The silent anticipation hung in the air a moment longer, then was obliterated by a second concussive wave, a concentric circle of pale blue light and a seemingly solid wall of air that sent Anders flying backwards. He landed heavily and skidded a few feet backwards. His belt caught on something and tore; his staff rolled from his hands with a clatter.

Inertia settled over him when he came to a halt. He was afraid to move, afraid to provoke the agony he knew must be waiting for him.

Slowly, the fear began to recede. He opened his eyes, surprised to discover that the total blackness was clearing, billowing into nothingness like fog rolling off a windy lake.

Then, rapidly, like a foot suddenly breaking free of the muck, his mind cleared, and he remembered.

_Blue light… so I wasn’t hallucinating. That was Justice… Vengeance…?_

He looked inward, dipping his awareness into that ever-present link to the Fade, and was surprised to find he was replete with mana. More surprising, he wasn’t nearly as damaged as he should have been. Even the humming frenzy of the lyrium was gone. Probably the worst symptom he felt was bone-deep weariness. Aside from the events surrounding his joining with Justice, he’d never experienced anything like this boon of healing.

Movement to his right caught his attention: Izzy, stretched across the ground and trying to prop herself up on her elbow. Her white corset was soaked through with blood – _Oh, the mages. Hakwe._

 _The demon! –_ he looked around frantically, but didn’t see any sign of the demon. _No, wait, there_ – on the floor, a dozen paces away, was a pile of ash. Demonic ash.

He let his eyes drift over the scene before him. Someone groaned nearby – Aveline. Hawke was near her, splayed across the ground, motionless.

With a suddenness that knocked the breath from his lungs, the final piece of his memory burst into his consciousness. _Fenris._

He scrambled to his knees, crawling a few paces to grab his staff. He stood, stumbled back to his knees, and stood again.

But Aveline groaned again. _Damnit, I can’t leave them like this_. Anders closed his eyes and clenched his fist, offering a silent prayer to the good spirits that Fenris was alright. A few minutes passed in a blurry fit of frenzied assessment and healing; the quicker he stabilized the group, the quicker he could find the others.

He reached Hawke first, scanning her unconscious form hurriedly with his magic, but she was… completely fine. She sported a burgeoning inflammation above her right temple, suggesting she had hit her head, but otherwise she was free of serious injury. _How did Aveline manage to avoid hurting her?_ He rushed to check the others, crouching beside Aveline and calling her name softly.

“What… what happened?” the guard captain asked as she slowly sat upright. She pulled off her helmet, looking pale and dazed. Anders’ impatience was rapidly replaced with concern; the woman looked quite a bit worse for wear. Which made sense, really - she had been tanking the pride demon and its lesser compatriots, and apparently using her body as a human pell for Hawke’s possessed rage.

“Shhh, we’re safe, Aveline, it’s alright,” Anders soothed while weaving a deep-tissue regeneration spell over the pale warrior. He looked up to see Izzy shuffling towards them. She half-sat, half-tumbled into a seated position on the ground beside Aveline, her legs tucked under her, before she shifted to the side and leaned heavily against the taller woman’s plate-covered back. “I feel like shit,” she announced glumly.

He reached across the Veil for a wisp, imbuing it with group restorative magic to buffet the party. The pale green light flitted about overhead, vibrating and restless, as if it were fussing over them.

“Hawke?” Aveline croaked. “She’s fine,” he cut in reassuringly. “She must have bumped her head in one of the blasts, but it’s already almost healed. She should wake up here in a bit.”

Anders wearily rose to his feet. “And now that no one here is moribund, I need to find the others. I’ll leave the spell wisp here. There’s only one entrance that I can see, so it’s not the worst place to try and recover some strength.”

He leaned down to rummage through Hawke’s potion belt, plucking out one of the last two restoration potions, but nearly dropped it when a brittle voice echoed through the chamber.

“Mage,” Fenris croaked. Anders whirled to the sound.

Fenris stood at the door, a tattered and bloodied Merrill by his side, an unconscious Varric in his arms. “Oh, Fenris,” Anders whispered.

The warrior took a step in the door and dropped to his knees. He looked down at Varric, as if momentarily confused, and tried to place the dwarf on the floor beside him. Instead, the moment he deposited the dwarf on the stone, he collapsed onto his side as though some invisible string supporting him had been cut.

Anders couldn’t recall ever moving so quickly; he was beside the warrior in an instant, rolling him on his back and running his hands over blood-splattered skin and armor, while simultaneously probing for injuries with – what turned out to be – totally unnecessary frenzy. Fenris was covered in an abundance of superficial cuts, a few nasty bruises, and an inordinate amount of blood that didn’t seem to be his, but he was primarily suffering from unqualified, unmitigated exhaustion.

In fact, the entire trio seemed about as drained as he had ever seen them. Varric bore the worst wounds, with several deep internal injuries that required the aid of his spiritual ally to treat; Merrill had lost a lot of blood but was otherwise intact.

Luckily, Merrill had a spare vial of lyrium - neglected in favor of blood magic - and he gratefully took it and relocated the group restoration wisp inside to power its slow, steady healing magic for the entire crew. Even better, Merrill was carrying an extra pack – his pack. Weary and anemic, she had still thought to bring his pack up the steps.

…

Setting up a makeshift camp proved to be nearly impossible, given the party’s general state of exhaustion. It took an inordinately long time for Merrill to weave paralysis hexes on the staircase, for Izzy to locate rations and set a large kettle of oatmeal and an equally large pan of salt pork rashers over the small magical flame Anders conjured, and for Aveline to lay out bedrolls for the unconscious companions. It took time, but Anders knew the extra effort of a meal and some decent rest would pay off tenfold.

While waiting for the food, and after he had done all he could for the group, he sat cross-legged beside Fenris. He pulled his own bedroll off his pack, tossed his blanket over the disconcertingly pale warrior, then gently lifted the man’s limp head to rest in his lap.

 _Maker,_ he’d never seen Fenris so drained. What must their battle have been like? If it was anything like the one his group faced…

Anders stroked his fingers atop snowy hair caked in all manner of blood and gore. It was gut-wrenching, almost sacrilegious, that the pristine whiteness should be soiled by such filth.

His mind conjured up an image of the runed basin, enchanted with water and purification glyphs. He nicked a rag from Fenris’s belt pouch, pulled the basin free of his pack and the canvas wrapping, and set the water flowing with a touch. He paused an extra moment to heat the water, then set about washing the gore from Fenris’s pallid face. Each dip of the soiled rag in the water set it swirling with red and black muck that vanished almost instantly.

Anders washed the warrior’s face, hands, and did the best he could for the snowy hair. With each pass of the cloth, his attention remained riveted on the warrior – well, and thanking all the good spirits that they were both alive.

But a sponge bath could only help so much, and by the time he had forced himself to admit that Fenris was alive, and that running a cloth over his skin and a hand through his hair for hours was not really medically necessary, the food was ready. He heard the clanking of tin as Izzy dished up oatmeal and salt pork rashers into four bowls. No banter, no complaining, just silent passing of bowls. It was fitting, he supposed.

He stretched to take the offered food, and handed off the basin for others to clean up a bit. On a whim, he unbuckled Lethendralis from Fenris’s shoulder and pulled it free to wipe its blade clean as well. Fenris always took such diligent care of the sword; it seemed like the familiar blade was something of a companion, a comfort to the warrior – the Lyrium Ghost equivalent of a child’s blankie. Cleaning it seemed like the least Anders could do.

And then the four conscious companions ate in silence, for a time. He barely tasted the food, but was extremely grateful for it nonetheless. Aveline broke the silence. “That darkness…” she began, then trailed off, her pale face tight with horror. “It was just like what we left at Ostagar, before Wesley…” her voice caught in her throat.

“Blight magic,” Anders murmured, his thoughts skipping back to the black flame. He felt Izzy shiver beside him. “I’ve felt it around Darkspawn Emissaries. We found a few on that first mission to the thaig, do you remember? That is exactly what their magic feels like.”

“So, what, you’re keeping tiny Darkspawn in your pocket now?” Izzy croaked weakly. “Because it was coming from your direction…”

“I know. It doesn’t make sense. Here, hold on, you need to drink something.” Anders reached to grab his waterskin, only realizing then that his belt had been torn free. He looked around, spotting it on the other side of the room; it seemed miles away. He sighed, thinking how to extricate himself from the warrior to stand, but Aveline waved him off; she pulled her own waterskin and passed it around before returning to her meal.

A few bites later, she looked back up at him contemplatively, her eyes squinting above the fire. “You say it was Blight magic. Then how can you not know what happened, Anders? You should be in the best position, as a mage and a Grey Warden,” Aveline murmured, her tone just shy of suspicious.

Anders tried not to respond to the implication in her tone, but the agitation crept in regardless. “Right, and so not knowing something about evil Darkspawn magic is clearly incriminating. Which is probably why I stuck around here, healing you, instead of checking on… on the others.” He sighed. “Look, we’re all tired and not thinking clearly. A few hours rest, as much food as you can manage, and we’ll all be in a better position to sort this out.” He hoped, anyways.

…

He must have been dozing, because the first thing he heard was Merrill’s voice, soft and grim, muttering a non-sequitur. “She claimed her name was Xebenkeck. It might have been a trick, but isn’t that the name from the notes Anders found? The Forbidden Ones?” He heard Aveline hum her agreement.

Anders stirred, glancing over to the sober Dalish mage. “Xebenkeck? You fought the demon from the codex? What, just the three of you?”

Merrill looked over at him, her thin face ashen. “That is what she called herself, anyways. The last blood mage we fought – he pulled out some old grimoire and summoned her. A powerful desire demon. More powerful than any demon I’ve faced. So many lesser demons rallied to her; it was like a nightmare. _Creators,_ I thought we were done for the moment I realized you all were missing.”

Anders looked down at Fenris, seized with a ridiculous fear for the warrior despite knowing he had survived, that he was here, alive. Without conscious direction, his eyes were watching the steady rise and fall of the warrior’s chest, fingers fondly threading through damp locks.

“Those wisps you left, Anders – they helped; I’m not sure we would all be here without the little healy one, or the barrier on Fenris. _Mythal’enaste_ , I’ve never seen _anyone_ fight like that. Varric and I stayed by the staircase – we’d be no use to anyone dead. But then he was out there, all alone, in a sea of demons.”

She grew still, and Anders’ heart hammered in his throat at the scene she painted. Aveline was leaning forward and apparently entranced by the tale; she rolled her hand in the air impatiently, as if to coax the story from behind Merrill’s lips.

“He was knocked down, two, maybe three times – buried in enemies. And then he got up, each time he just got up. He got up and kept all their focus on him. There were just so many. Varric and I picked them off, one by one, but there were so many. And eventually it was just the desire demon.”

The Dalish woman’s voice grew shaky at the memory, but she continued. “But, oh, she was so powerful. She brushed Fenris aside like he was made of straw, then came for us. She must have used some kind of force magic on Varric… one blow, and he dropped to the ground. I was so certain he was dead - from one blow. And then Fenris was there, fighting her like the Dread Wolf of legend.”

“Maker…” Aveline breathed.

“Little Wolf,” Anders said distantly.

A groan interrupted his musing; Hawke stirred, then bolted upright. Izzy immediately scootched towards her, silently offering a waterskin.

Anders noticed he wasn’t the only one who suddenly felt like an intruder; Aveline and Merrill both shifted closer to the fire. No one wanted to be around for the awkward ‘you stabbed me’ conversation that was surely brewing. And anyway, he had things to do before he could truly sleep. He gently lifted Fenris’s head from his lap and awkwardly toed a part of his own bedroll underneath instead.

Before his little nap, he had remembered more details of the moments leading up to the nova of black flame. For one thing, it was obvious that his dream had been real; the masked person with the whip of green flame was demonstrably real.

Anders stood, making a slow circuit of the stone room. There was no indication of what had become of the stranger; no corpse, no ashes. _Safest to assume he’s still alive, then. And, if the dream is real, someone hired him… so, it’s unlikely this will be the last we see of him._

Anders noticed his belt on the ground, and wandered over to retrieve it, but froze five paces away. As soon as he got close to it, something felt immediately, familiarly _wrong._ He stepped back, then forward – _wrong_ – circled the belt and approached at a different angle; _wrong_.

It felt like Blight magic.

Abashed, he returned to the group. “Aveline? Could I borrow you for a moment? I need help, and preferably from someone without magic.”

Aveline raised her eyebrows, but stood wearily. He led her to the belt and pointed. “I think something in there might be responsible for that black fire. I have a number of relics in the pouches – one of them must have become activated, somehow. But every time I get close to it – I don’t really know how to explain it – something _pulls_ at my magic. Could you just… dump everything out?”

Aveline did not look impressed. “Anders... perhaps we should just leave it all here. Or at least take it somewhere away from the others…”

Anders considered a moment, but shook his head. “No, I can’t leave it all here for anyone to find. I can wait and ask Hawke or Fenris after they rest, though.”

“Couldn’t you…” she gestured broadly, “put a magical shield over it, or something?”

“No. No magic.” He sighed, unsure how to explain his hypothesis. “Whatever you may think, I don’t have Blight magic. Something in that pack feels like the Taint, and is trying to draw in regular Fade magic. And that means I can’t use magic to make it safe, and I can’t leave it here. Besides – whatever it is didn’t kill us before, it only killed the demon.”

Aveline looked at him for a long moment, a bald and critical appraisal of his words. Aveline wasn’t one to be coerced or bullied. At last, she gave a single, curt nod.

The guard captain pulled her sword, giving his belt a sharp prod before dancing back a step. Anders almost giggled, dark though the situation was. “It’s not a varghest playing possum, Aveline. It won’t bite you. Just dump it out.”

Aveline scowled at him, but she did sheath her sword and slowly approach the offending accessory. She crouched and, gingerly, quickly, she pinched one end and shook. Nothing came tumbling out. A frustrated huff from Aveline was enough for Anders to snap his mouth shut. _Not the time for colorful commentary, right._

The captain settled in to spend a few moments unfastening the toggles and snaps that kept the various pouches on his belt closed, and then rose back up to a cautious crouch. Just as before, she touched as little of the belt as possible to shake it. This time, the contents spilled out across the stone floor, and in the same moment, Aveline darted backward.

“Did you feel anything weird? While you were close to it?” Anders asked, his eyes roaming the contents rapidly.

“No. Nothing.”

“Good sign, that.” He leaned forward, squinting. “Is that little figurine… glowing?”

He pointed, and Aveline tracked the invisible line until she was squinting too. “Yes, I think so.” Suddenly, her nose wrinkled, and she pointed to something next to it. “Is that…?”

Anders looked where she pointed… _oh. Well, this is awkward._ “Yes. A used hanky. Can we get back to the evil relic?” _Damnit, I knew I should have just left that in the room after Fenris and I…_

Aveline took a cautious step closer, her hand hovering gingerly over the faintly glowing figurine. “It’s an amulet. A dragon. And, yes, the eyes are glowing red.”

 _Of course._ Really, if there was one thing predictable about Tevinter, it was the abundance of dragons used in heinous rituals and relics. “Right… well, can you destroy it? What’s it made of?”

Without a word, Aveline eased her hand down to grip a small metal chain, looking like she was reaching into a pit of vipers. When nothing happened upon touching it, she lifted the chain and held the relic away from her body, carrying it over to a nearby pile of rubble “Where did you find this thing, anyways?”

“It must have been from that desk on the first floor. Almost everything was broken, all jumbled together in the drawer - I just figured it was probably all worthless, but that there might be something worth studying later. Plus, we were in a hurry, so… yeah, I admit, I didn’t think it through.”

Aveline’s withering look was unnecessary; he already felt like an idiot. In moments, the warrior selected and hoisted a large rock, but right before she could bring it down, something occurred to Anders. “Wait!”

Aveline faltered, then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “What is it now?”

“Say, Merrill? Could you come take a look at something?” Anders called over his shoulder. He held up a finger to the increasingly impatient warrior as the slight Dalish woman stood, stumbled dizzily, and then wearily shuffled to Anders side. As soon as she was within earshot, he pointed at the relic. “That figurine, with the glowing eyes. I think it’s a focus for Blight magic. Does it feel weird if you get close to it?”

Merrill, bless her, stared at him for a heartbeat, and then slowly approached the relic without further questioning. He and Aveline watched with increasing nervousness as she approached, picked it up, examined it. “No. It feels like any other bauble. I assume that means it has more to do with the Taint than the magic?” 

“You… wow. Yeah. I guess I don’t need to explain, but for Aveline’s sake, you just gave us an important piece of the puzzle. That thing pulls at my connection to the Fade, and somehow spits out Blight magic. But only me… it must need Tainted blood to work. I wish there was a non-mage Grey Warden about, but…” he trailed off as he realized Merrill had already put it together, and Aveline was beyond caring. “Well, it was worth checking, in case we come across anything else like it.”

He didn’t get a chance to say more; as soon as he stopped to breathe, Aveline hoisted a large rock and slammed it down atop the relic. It shattered like glass, and a puff of black smoke burst from around the rock with a goosebump-inducing noise reminiscent of a groan. When she lifted the rock, nothing remained but a fine, black powder.

Anders stepped forward cautiously, but nothing in the powder reached out to him. “Oh, thank the Maker. And thank you both. I have no idea what I would have done if that didn’t work.”

Aveline tossed the rock back in the pile and gave him a steady look. “There is no benefit to dwelling on it. It did work. Now, is there anything else in those pouches that pose an existential threat to the group?”

“Eh, not that I’m aware of…”

Aveline shook her head, a devastating reprimand from the stoic guardswoman, and strode back to the group, Merrill trailing unsteadily after her. Anders spent some time crouched beside his belt, examining each object with his senses and prodding them with his magic. Not so much as a spark, sizzle, shift or stir. He still didn’t know what most of the relics were, or which ones were even intact, but he deemed the lot safe enough for a night’s rest.

Hawke and Varric were both awake and eating hesitant bites of oatmeal when he rejoined the group, but Fenris was still out cold. Anders considered trying to rouse the warrior long enough to get some food in him, but discarded the option when he realized the amount of explaining that would likely need to occur whenever Fenris woke. _Well, rest is just as important._ And there would be time for food and explanations once everyone got some much-needed sleep.

Anders found Fenris’s pack, unstrapped his bedroll, and awkwardly shimmied it up around the warrior’s legs. He painstakingly unstrapped and removed gauntlets and pauldrons, then slipped beneath the blanket he had placed over Fenris earlier. The man was cold – his body was undoubtedly shunting resources toward anabolism, reconstructing materials lost in the grueling fight, which didn’t produce much body heat. So, Anders held him close, and made mental promises to never let the man out of his sight again.

And the group - reunited, in various states of consciousness, bone-weary all - rested. With the relative safety of Merrill’s hexes at the door, they slept on the surprisingly warm stone ground, letting the wirium’s magic seep in to knit their wounds. It was a sign of the brutal day that no one called for, or offered to keep, a watch.

* * *

“Hurry!” Hawke shouted.

Izzy was bent over in front of the wooden door, frantically picking the lock that had mysteriously shut the group off from the stairs leading to the Idos room. Anders was certain the door hadn’t been locked before – nor had they encountered a single door barred by a traditional, mundane lock anywhere in the tunnels. The fact that this particular door was locked now seemed more than a little suspicious.

“I’m GOING as FAST as I CA—”

Izzy was cut off by the sound of a wooden door slamming open with a crack behind them. The antechamber was breached, then.

“Uh, actually, I can go a little faster.”

The sounds of heavy armor and plated footsteps filled the hallway. Anders was on the verge of trying his luck with a force spell on the door before Izzy finally cried out in victory. The seven of them all tried to squeeze through the small frame simultaneously, creating an almost comedic bottleneck.

Once they all managed to coordinate well enough to pass through the doorway, and right before the door closed, Merrill wove a massive paralysis glyph a few feet down the hallway. Which was brilliant, Anders realized as the door slammed shut. The clangor of plate mail reached a crescendo and then disappeared into eerie silence.

Hawke whirled on the group. “Right. Who in the actual fuck were they?”

* * *

A few hours earlier, Anders had been awoken - completely disoriented to such things as the time of day or where he was or how long he had slept – by something stirring beside him. It took a moment for his memory to kick back in, but when it did, he felt dizzy with relief. Or, maybe dizzy with hunger? Hard to say. 

He wasn’t exactly sure of the protocol for greeting one’s former-enemy-turned-lover the first time they stirred from a prolonged period of unconsciousness, so he did the first thing that occurred to him: he pressed up against the warrior and held him tightly.

In hindsight, he might have said something first, as the odds that Fenris was also disoriented were reasonably high.

Fenris stiffened, and in half a heartbeat, Anders found himself rolled over on his back with his arms pinned above him, the lanky warrior’s weight spread evenly over his wrists, abdomen and thighs. An excellent brawler’s hold, but a relatively impolite way to say good morning.

A strange noise was expelled from his lungs in the shuffle, making his belated, breathless greeting a little awkward. “Hunhhhh-- Oh… hello, Fenris. Good… urk… good morning… to you too.”

It was another moment before the fog cleared from the warrior’s expression, and he immediately sat up, freeing Anders’ arms. “Mage…?”

“Yep… still… a mage. Would you mind… umf, shifting off… my diaphragm? Can’t… really… breathe.”

Fenris scrambled sideways until he knelt beside the mage, his eyes wide. “You are alive?”

Anders sat up and patted himself dramatically. “Am I??” It was indicative of Fenris’s shock that no huff escaped, no eyebrow was raised, and not a single eyeroll occurred.

The warrior’s eyes seemed the first part of him to regain their acuity, as they began flitting over Anders, then the surroundings, with that sharp, analytical gaze. After a moment, a single hand reached out, lightly resting on the side of Anders’ chin, as if to assure himself his eyes could be trusted.

Anders, meanwhile, couldn’t help but notice the obvious tremor to the warrior’s hand as he reached out. He reached up to cover those calloused, elegant, _cold_ fingers with his own. “From what I’ve heard from Merrill, you’re the one whose state of vitality should be in question. You’ve been out for a while now; you were flat exhausted. And between that and the healing, you’ve got to be starving right about now. Let’s get some food in you, and then we can revisit this little wellness check.”

Fenris nodded, but didn’t show any signs of moving. Anders felt his brows draw together and his lips turn up in a sad smile, his face apparently trying to convey, simultaneously, the incongruity of his emotions; the pain of worry and the joy of reunion. Without quite meaning to, he closed his eyes and nuzzled into the warrior’s hand a moment. _Fenris._

And then he forced himself to stand, because the damned man needed to eat something _now._

...

After moving to the other side of the room to avoid waking their still-sleeping companions, after a breakfast fit for half a dozen men, and after they had both shared their respective demonic encounters, Anders was starting to regain his equilibrium.

With an absentminded handwave, Anders boiled some water and prepared two cups of tea. Before passing one to Fenris, he pulled the restoration potion he had nicked from Hawke and set it firmly in Fenris’s outstretched hand.

“Uh-uh. No arguments. You were _exhausted_ , Fenris, and you just ate half your body weight in oatmeal and salt pork rashers. This will help with digestion, the elfroot will ease any lingering injuries. And you’ll be grateful for the stamina when it’s time to pack up.”

Fenris frowned, but he took the vial without comment. As soon as he downed it, Anders passed him a steaming mug of tea to chase the bitter, mouth-puckering potion from his palette.

Of course, he didn’t expect to be let off so easily. “Where is yours? Why do you not have to take a vile potion?”

“You know, I’ve been wondering that myself. I was exhausted, and all cut up from a cocktail of ice and demon claws, and then, uh, apparently became something of a nexus for Blight magic. But when I woke up, it was a lot like waking up after that Templar stabbed me, just after I joined with Justice. I was… surprisingly ok. Just really tired.”

“You said the ice… that was not your spell?”

“Yeah… I still haven’t figured that one out. It was another weave – I know that for sure. Someone else summoned the water, and it froze in my blizzard. I just don’t really know who. Or how.”

“And the relic? It is definitely destroyed?”

Anders grinned at the lack of hesitation before Fenris’s question. Magic from a mysterious source would have been a crucial, alarming plot point to Fenris up until quite recently. Perhaps it didn’t speak well of him that such things were becoming mundane to the elf.

“Yeah, quite sure. And I did go back and verify that none of the other looted items do any weird, possessive tricks to my magic.”

“And Varric? He will live?”

“Yep. He’s sleeping it off. Internal bleeding is the silent killer, but he’ll be fine. I’m a little worried about Izzy and Merrill – they both lost a lot of blood. They’ll be alright in a few days, but healing doesn’t replenish the reserves it burns off. They will both be weak and hungry for a while, I suspect. And you can add your name to that list as well, I might add,” he chastised fondly.

“You would also be on the list, if not for mysterious providence.”

Anders shrugged; no point in denying it, but certainly no point in revealing how certain he was of his imminent demise during that seemingly hopeless fight.

They sipped tea in silence for a while. Fenris looked contemplative, and Anders… Anders looked at Fenris. He didn’t mean to stare, but impertinent eyes kept drifting back to the warrior’s lithe hands, his weary eyes, his swan-white hair still faintly streaked with blood. Anders couldn’t help it. Fenris was… Fenris. Extraordinary, mercurial, dangerous, amazing, (prickly, blunt, petulant), brave, loyal, _brilliant_ Fenris.

Fenris was…

“So. What do you think we should do?”

Everything.

“Hmm? Do?”

“Yes. Do. We survived the demons. Now what?”

Anders tried to keep his upright posture, but that very question had been plaguing him since the moment he was certain the crew would emerge from this venture with as many members as it departed with. He had been struggling, because what he thought they should do, and what he wanted to do… they were not the same thing.

“I think we should leave. Go back up to the surface.”

Fenris didn’t so much as twitch at the answer; he simply looked at Anders over his steaming mug and waited. _There’s a lot you don’t say, isn’t there. There’s a lot more to you than people know._

Anders shifted on the warm stone floor, moving over so he was beside the warrior. They always talked better this way.

“Three reasons. First, and possibly most relevant: the minute the rest of the gang wakes up, Hawke is going to march us out of here like there’s an Archdemon at our heels. Hell, there could be, for all we know. And, well, I can hardly blame anyone that wants to leave. It took seven of us to fight the shit on the ninth floor down; I don’t know about you, but in my experience, ancient evil doesn’t get easier to defeat the farther down you go. I mean, it’s _possible_ that those were the two biggest baddies in these tunnels, but… I kinda doubt it. And we almost lost everyone in that fight. Whatever we could possibly learn down here, it’s not worth dying over.”

He found himself listing, and finally just gave in and leaned against the warrior’s side. “So, if the seven of us can’t storm this castle, then, logically, we need an army. And that brings me to my second reason: it’s obvious that something is going on down here. Several somethings, in fact. I had thought the best thing to do was keep it out of the public eye so that it didn’t cause a panic – a riot that might lead to more harm for the mages in the Gallows. But now I’m starting to wonder if a riot isn’t the exact thing we need.”

Fenris remained silent, but Anders felt him grow tense. “What I mean is… well, Meredith already requested the Right, and it’s obvious that this whole damn pot is about to boil over. So maybe, we can find a way to let people know what’s really causing all the problems in the Kirkwall Circle. That it’s not the mage’s fault. There’s weird lyrium and enormous amounts of blood magic and possibly a lot more demons down here.”

He took a sip of tea, buying time as he organized his thoughts. “Then, when the riot happens, we come prepared – prepared to help protect the city, protect the mages, heal the wounded. Maybe we can get rid of the Gallows and Meredith in one go. And _then_ we can recruit people – mages, the Guard, hell, maybe even some Templars - to aid the _real_ cause: shoring up the defenses down here. Getting rid of that lyrium.”

“Do you think that is even possible?” Fenris asked quietly.

“Actually, I may have an idea about that too, but it’s too early to say. I need to check some things first.” At Fenris’s immediate ‘I disapprove’ snort, Anders rushed to add, “Nono, nothing sneaky. I just don’t even know if it’s worth mentioning. I just need to check the rest of the notes that Feynriel collected for me, and then I’ll tell you about it if I think there’s anything to it.”

When Fenris offered no further objections, he barreled on. “Okay, and the last point – I’ve been thinking a lot, about the way we were separated, and attacked by two insanely powerful demons. And the fact that the guy from my nightmare just happened to show up when… when things were going so badly.” _When we both almost died,_ he didn’t say.

“So. The third, and most important point is this: Someone is behind this. Someone is _orchestrating_ it. Poking around down here blindly isn’t going to help. Right now, we’re just fighting battles, but losing the war. We have a limited amount of time before it’s too late to help the city and the mages, and the only thing I can think to do with that time is to find out who is behind all this. Who sent that fucking ‘Mourn Watch’ dude, and who wa—”

“What?”

“-s organizing the blood mages—”

“Mage.”

“and who—”

“Anders!”

“What?”

“What did you just say?”

“And who? No, wait, I said ‘what?’”

Fenris gave him the most devastating ‘now is not the time for your shenanigans’ huff that Anders had ever heard from the man. _Right, serious business._ “Uh, I said we need to figure out who is organizing all this. Who sent the Mourn Watch guy and the blood mages.”

“What makes you think someone has sent a Mourn Watch Guard after you?”

Anders blinked. “Wait, is that a Tevinter thing? I’ve never heard the phrase - I thought it was the guy’s name, or title, or something.”

Fenris frowned, his expression stormy. “So, you have known this whole time?”

“It was a part of the nightmare. One of the voices in the dream said something about not hiring such an expensive hitman if they didn’t ‘trust the training of a former Mourn Watch Guard.’ I’m sure I told you that.”

“I am certain you did not.”

“Well, it wasn’t intentional. The name doesn’t mean anything to me. Speaking of which, what does the name mean?”

Fenris sighed, and his head tilted slightly to rest against Anders’. “The Mourn Watch is an order of the Mortalitasi in Nevarra. To the best of my knowledge, they are mages who supposedly protect the Grand Necropolis, and in particular, dealing with the spirits that reside there.”

“Nevarra? How…?”

“How do I know anything about Nevarra?” Fenris asked smugly.

Anders tried to look innocent and dubious at the same time. “I mean…”

“You can be quite the sassy cur when others know things you do not.” Fenris said mildly, nudging him with a shoulder. He spoke a little louder over Anders’ feeble protests. “There are no official diplomatic relations between Tevinter and Nevarra, but the Mortalitasi are powerful mages with ties to the royal family. It should come as no surprise, then, that the order was founded by a Tevinter mage. Unofficially, many Magisters maintain close ties to Mortalitasi. Danarius hosted numerous ‘ambassadors’ from the region, and the Mourn Watch Guard was an area of particular interest.”

Anders sighed. “Of course. I really should know better by now, shouldn’t I? Every road paved with sinister magic leads back to Tevinter.” 

He was interrupted by the sound of grumbling from the other side of the stone room. Just as Anders had predicted, the crew was ready to leave the tunnels mere moments after waking. What Anders hadn’t predicted, however, was Merrill’s response to Hawke’s grumbled complaint about the crappy loot.

“Oh, did I not mention? That demon, downstairs – she was sitting on a rather fancy chest.”

“A fancy chest?” Izzy snickered. Anders had to give her credit; weary as she was, and never at her best right after waking, the rogue was quick to pounce on the innuendo. “Oh, do tell us more.”

“Well, it was… fancy. I don’t know; big, intricate, and covered in gold.”

Varric gave a weak chuckle, then waved his hand at Izzy. “Oh, leave her be, Rivaini. Daisy, you mean to tell us there was a chest down there, and you didn’t think to mention it until now?”

“Yes, Varric – we did have other things to worry about, what with Fenris running off like a man possessed as soon as the demon died. And carrying _you,_ I might add!”

Merrill, it turned out, was not exaggerating. The chest was indeed quite large and ornate, and Hawke fished a handsome pile of coin out of it before distributing it evenly among the crew. To be honest, Anders was more surprised that it had not mysteriously vanished while the party slept.

In addition to coin, the demon had left behind a rather powerful staff that Merrill immediately took a shining to, as well as a pendant with some sort of defensive enchantment that was unanimously turned over to Aveline.

Anders didn’t pay much attention until Hawke pulled out the last of the chest’s contents, an old, tightly bound leather tool roll. He could feel ambient arcane energy, the byproduct of enchantment, radiating off the compact satchel. The enchantment had an intriguing quality to it, a resonance that felt warm and familiar to Anders in ways he couldn’t describe.

“Oh, that… what is that? Can I call dibs?”

Hawke passed it over with a shrug. It looked like the kind of thing a carpenter might keep carving tools in. The leather was faded - clearly quite old – but it also looked neglected; well-used leather became pliable and soft, while the pouch he held now was rigid and cracked. He unraveled the straps that wrapped around the center, and found custom pockets inside holding a thin leather belt, a ring, an amulet, and a sheaf of notes.

Merrill opened her mouth to say something about the set, but the sound of a distant door creaking caused her to freeze.

And not just her – the entire party was jolted into silence. They had had enough unpleasant surprises in recent hours to excuse a little jumpiness. More noises filtered into the concourse, relatively faint and distant-sounding, but these noises were familiar - the unmistakable sounds of armored footsteps.

“Anyone expecting company?” Hawke whispered.

“It could be the Guard, but they were not supposed to begin blocking tunnels until I returned.” Aveline’s voice was tense as the air before a lightning strike.

“There are at least a dozen in plate armor, possibly more with leather boots.” Fenris tilted his head, then frowned in irritation. “There is an echo. I cannot be certain which passage they are in, but they are approaching swiftly. A quick march, no idle conversation.”

Hawke didn’t seem particularly worried. “Well, so all we know is that there are people in plate armor and they probably outnumber us. Hardly the worst thing we’ve faced. Not even the worst thing we’ve faced today, probably.”

“I don’t know about you all, but Bianca and I are still recovering from our last unannounced guests. Look around, Hawke – do we look like a capable group to you? Right now, I mean.”

Anders mustered up a weak grin for Varric’s snark, but he couldn’t help but agree with the assessment. “Right, weren’t we headed out anyways?”

Hawke shook her head, but her lips turned up in a fond smile. “Brave lot, you are. We don’t even know how many there are - but sure, let’s run for it.” 

“Mmm, those elfy ears never lie. I vote we batten down the loot and club haul our way back to the surface.” When no one moved, Izzy clapped her hands and barked, “Smartly now, let’s go.”

Hawke started a little, then flashed the pirate that rare, private, incredibly charming smile. “I love it when the Captain makes an appearance.” She turned to the large metal door, then looked back at the group. “So, a retreat then? Anyone opposed?” The footsteps drew nearer in the resulting silence. “The ‘ayes’ have it.” She paused, her tone changing when she added, “Let’s try and stick together this time.”

For an instant, Hawke’s voice had taken on that haunted quality that she would never admit to. He made a mental note to find a quiet time to explain his hypothesis that they hadn’t really _been separated,_ so to speak _;_ rather, it seemed someone had intentionally driven that wedge.

The crew filed out into the cavern, hugging the wall and shuffling as quickly and quietly as seven people with full packs and not enough sleep could manage. Just as they gained the first floor doorway, the noises grew louder, echoing throughout the enormous cavern.

Anders glanced over his shoulder, just barely catching a glance of shapes pouring out of the ninth-floor doorway in plate, full-visor helmets, and ostentatious gold sashes. 

Fenris bit off a curse behind him, then turned and took Anders by the arm as he pushed through the doorway. “We need to make it to the locking mechanism. Hurry.” He made the announcement to the group in his usual stoically gruff tone, but Anders could see the muscles of his jaw work as he clenched his teeth.

* * *

“Right. Who in the actual fuck were they?”

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “I'll just call that bunch 'enemies' and footnote it later.”

Fenris sighed impatiently. “They were dressed as a unit of a Magesterium honor guard, but perhaps we could discuss it later? I do not know how long a wooden door will hold if there are many of them.”

“I think only a few made it through from the cavern before Merrill got to the locking mechanism,” Anders offered.

Hawke sighed. “Well, we can stick around to shove some canaries up their coal mines, or we can trap the stairs behind us and get the hell out of here. Thoughts?”

“Orrrr…” Merrill said coyly. “Anders, you know most of the primal spells, yes? Are you familiar with the Golem’s Hand?”

It took him a minute to make the connection between Dalish spell names and the Circle equivalent, but he perked up when he realized what she was suggesting. “Ah, Stonefist – yeah. Good idea.” He made shooing gestures at the rest of the group. “We’re going to dump a bunch of rocks in front of the door – might want to give us a little space, yeah?”

Anders felt a little silly for not thinking of this earlier; he and Merrill made quick work of blocking the doorway between the two of them. It wasn’t exactly practical for large-scale use, but for this one doorway… well, credit where credit was due. “That was a great idea, Merrill. Quick thinking.”

She beamed at him, brushed her hands off on her tunic, then raised her fists up in exaggerated triumph. “Enasalin!”

“You two done down there?” Hawke called from a safe distance up the stairs.

“Yep. I don’t see anyone pushing that door open any time soon.” Anders called, surveying the small pile of rubble stacked against the wooden door.

Hawke jogged down the steps to investigate, then cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted at the doorway, “You wouldn’t consider just dying in there, would you?”

Somehow, it seemed, Hawke taunting their pursuers changed the tone of the encounter for the entire party. Varric laughed and pushed past the rest of the crew on the small landing to join in with his own insults. Even Fenris seemed caught up in the gang’s heady mixture of relief and weariness. He cupped his hands and called something down the stairs in Qunlat, then calmly turned and began the long hike up the stairs.

Anders fell in behind him, and the others soon joined in the ascent. He was just about to ask, but Varric beat him to the question. “Uh, Broody – just so I can quote you in the appendix, what the hell did you just say?”

 _“Kadanshok defransdim vashedan,”_ Fenris said mildly over his shoulder.

“Right. That. What does that mean?

“Colloquially, the essence is, _I shall use my foot to assault you in the genitals_. A common taunt among the Qunari.”

“Oh. Right. Uh, right. Thanks for that.”

Fenris smirked back at the dwarf. “For the sake of the appendix – the common response is, _defransim vasebra nehraa issala shok._ Literally, _I’m now struggling with discomfort among my wounded intimate friends_.”

Anders was struggling to contain his amusement, but he couldn’t help the snort that escaped when he looked back to see the concerned expression plastered on Varric’s face. “That’s the… common response, is it? So, this little exchange happens frequently?”

“I suppose you would have to ask a Qunari.” Fenris replied nonchalantly.

“You know,” Varric muttered, “you’re very… different from other elves.”

“Oh? You know them all?”

Anders couldn’t hold back any longer, and the giggles escaped in snorts and bursts.

* * *

The hike up was not as bad as Anders anticipated, largely because of the slightly deranged, and decidedly celebratory mood that had settled over the group. The combination of last-minute loot, successfully evading pursuit, and the knowledge that they would all see the surface again seemed to work wonders for morale. The mental and physical exhaustion merely tinted the humor towards the delirious and maniacal.

By the time they crested the final staircase, and emerged into the hidden basement of the mansion, the gang was practically drunk with excitement. Anders charged up the staircase and burst into the main hall, exclaiming over his shoulder, “It’s the middle of the day!”

Cheers erupted all around. Anders grinned when he noticed Varric, Fenris and Izzy passing Aveline a few coins. None of the group had had any idea what time it was; they weren’t even sure how long they’d been in the infernal tunnels.

Anders grabbed the first bottle of wine he saw in the kitchen and brought it out to the hall, passing it around with another cheer. “Hawke’s merry band of misfits lives to see another day!” he cheered. “Literally!” Hawke added. Fenris disarmed the trap on the front door, and a short, impromptu party ensued on the front steps - likely a bizarre spectacle to their Hightown neighbors.

The weariness soon won out, however, and the siren song of meals and beds grew more irresistible. The group decided to meet up at the Hanged Man the following evening to discuss lingering questions about the tunnels; Hawke had proposed a brief meeting on the spot, but was unanimously shot down by the tunnel-weary crew. 

Once everyone had drifted off, Anders plopped down on the mansion’s stoop, leaning his elbows on the step above and basking in the daylight.

Fenris dropped down beside him a few moments later, holding out the celebratory bottle of wine. He had removed his armor, stripped down to leggings and tunic as was customary at the mansion. The top three toggles of his tunic were unfastened, as though he had been about to undress and then changed his mind.

Anders took the proffered bottle and sipped the dry, earthy wine. He stared at the bottle a moment, then looked sidelong at Fenris: exhausted, sorely in need of a bath, possibly a little tipsy - but still every bit the steadfast and self-assured warrior. _How did I find the one person in Thedas who could take such upheavals in stride?_

Something glimmered in the sunlight, the frame of a circular pendant that rested right below the V between his prominent clavicles. “Is that…?” Anders asked, turning to get a good look.

The warrior’s hand darted up, fingering the small glyph almost self-consciously. He looked away. “I found it while you were in the tunnels. It was the third thing I wanted to show you.”

“You had it made into a pendant?”

“Yes. I recalled you wearing something similar, a long time ago. But it felt like you, when I touched it, and then when you came back, there were… distractions.” He tugged the slipknots, loosening the cord, and slipped the pendant over his head.

Anders thought back; the notes from Feynriel, and then the new robes… Fenris was full of surprises. “It’s really beautiful like this. I can’t believe you noticed my old one…” Anders reached out, touching the glyph tentatively; a reassuring warmth reached back.

Anders looked away for a moment at a familiar prickling sensation behind his eyes. “I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect.” He took a deep breath and looked back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I love it, but I really like the thought of you wearing it. Do you want to hold onto it?”

Fenris tilted his head. “You are not upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“I should have given it to you sooner.”

Anders felt a laugh bubble up, but managed to contain it to a sharp exhale. “Oh, Maker… it’s not like we haven’t had anything else to worry about. Besides, you inspired it. It’s an intention glyph – just a silly little way to remember something important. The words are yours – ‘nothing is wasted in a life’. It seemed like something I needed to be reminded of, once in a while. So, no. Hell no, I’m not upset. It’s actually really touching that you kept it close.”

Fenris stared at him for a long while, shaking his head slowly. He was still holding the pendant, but dropped his hand to place the glyph in Anders’ palm. “You should hold on to this.”

Anders looked down at his hand as Fenris closed his fingers over the glyph, then looked back up at the warrior with trepidation. “I really don’t mind if…”

“You said it was something you needed to be reminded of. I agree.”

Anders’ brows knit together. “I can make another one… or just, like, remember words like a normal person…”

“Could you make another one for me?” 

A slow grin drew over Anders face at the strange compromise. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Just let me know what you want to be reminded of.”

Fenris nodded and leaned back on the steps. “I will think on it.” Anders slipped the pendant over his head and tightened the cord, taking a closer look at the setting Fenris had commissioned. He murmured his approval, tracing the glossy wood frame with a finger.

Some time passed in amicable sunbathing, the quotidian sounds of the Hightown street a welcome change from the ominous silence down in the tunnels. After a long while, Fenris leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So,” he said drowsily, “we live another day.”

Anders took a deep breath. “Miraculously, you appear to be correct.” He still held the pendant, and the intention hovered in the back of his mind. “One more day to fight. I just wish we knew who – or what – we’re fighting against.”

“We may know soon enough. Those guards, in the tunnels – those units travel with high-level officials, and otherwise remain in Minrathous to guard the Imperial Senate chambers.”

“Do you think Danarius is finally making his move?”

Fenris paused, shaking his head. “It is unlikely. Those guards were there to scare us off. If Danarius had wanted to make a move, they would not have led with pawns. The true question is what they wanted us to stay away from.”

“And on whose orders,” Anders sighed. _Maker, I’m so sick of being confused. But I suppose confused is better than dead._

Anders heard Fenris twist, felt the warrior’s gaze as he took a long, appraising look. At length, he dropped his eyes, settled back, and relaxed against the stoop. Anders smiled to himself. Fenris wasn’t afraid of dark waters, but he would make sure Anders wasn’t drowning.

When he spoke, his tone was companionable and easy. “One more day to fight. Or just go mad.”

Anders huffed a laugh. “We have a right to be mad in a place like this.” 

Fenris hummed in agreement. After some time, he lightly kicked Anders’ foot with his own. “I do not remember you cheering the sunlight every time you came out from the sewers,” he said with a lopsided smirk and a sidelong glance.

Anders took a hearty swallow of wine and passed the bottle back. “Yeah, well, things change,” he said, retaliating with a playful bump of the elbow.

“Some things do,” Fenris agreed easily. He tilted almost imperceptibly towards the mage, just the slightest list - just far enough that his arm grazed against Anders’. He sat there a long while, basking in the afternoon sun, with the small point of contact between them.

At some point, Fenris stood, gripped Anders’ shoulder gently for a moment, and then strode back inside the mansion.

Anders smiled to himself, his hand reaching up to hold the warmth on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, first of all, sorry for the delay! And second, sorry for the accidental tease - the epic loots that were mentioned in the comments got pushed off to next chapter :/ As recompense, I'm going to try to get the next chapter up tomorrow. It's been a lot of dark and stormy plot recently, so... rewards shall be forthcoming. 
> 
> After that, the forecast is showing intermittent plot, and here on the doppler we can see a shameless smut system moving in over the current high-pressure system, so we're in for some sassiness before these two fronts collide... 
> 
> Oh! Mourn Watch guards come from the latest novel, Tevinter Nights. No serious liberties taken there. As for a Blight magic converter relic... I mean, yeah, liberties were taken. Again, I will point out that Ferelden has a single, batty old lunatic up in a tower in the mountains doing research on the Taint, and he came up with Blight magic cocktails for any Grey Warden class in Warden's Keep. It seems reasonable that Tevinter has a few more resources devoted to the cause. 
> 
> Last thing: Anders throws some wild passes towards the end of this chapter, but keep in mind, he doesn't know a lot of things. He's trying to formulate a plan with limited information. I just point that out because, well, I'm not smart enough to make everything a devious act of foreshadowing.


	31. Rewards

After baths, after changing, and after a hearty dinner, Anders was ready for bed. Fenris was too, by the look of him, but the man was too stubborn by half.

Over dinner, Anders had made the mistake of asking Fenris if he had ever _tried_ to read Tevene.

“I mean, since you learned to read Common. They share much of the same alphabet… and since you already speak the language… I dunno. I just wondered. It might be a lot easier than you think.”

Fenris had gone silent for a long time. Eventually, he said, almost shyly, “I have not tried. Not since my lessons with Hawke.” He then stood and casually rifled through Anders’ pack while Anders looked on with fond amusement. Fenris had never paid much heed to social norms like ‘boundaries’ and ‘personal space’, but Anders found that he was quite charmed by the warrior’s utilitarian quirks and peccadillos. Anything in the mansion – the mansion itself – was, evidently, communal.

Fenris pulled out the tome Anders had filched from the blood library and opened it to a random page. He stared intently at the parchment, then looked up at Anders with an extremely rare look of excitement lighting up his features. “You… you are correct. I can read some of this. How did I not…” he trailed off, eyes squinting as his mouth worked silently. “Any dispute as to the prominence of such research, when two or more adepts make concurrent but separate advancements, shall be left to the discretion of the Arch-Chancellor of Apprentices.”

Anders couldn’t help but laugh. “It sounds exactly like the first thing apprentices are given in the Circle – an enormous tome on student conduct, Circle rules, and disciplinary actions. Basically, a 500-page treatise to say, “don’t hurt people, don’t be a twit, demons are bad – listen up or else’. And a detailed account of what ‘or else’ means, of course.” He shook his head, unsure whether to feel more amused or disturbed to find some common thread between the southern Circles and the Tevinter mageocracy.

Fenris flipped to another random page. “This looks like a verse from the Chant.”

“Wait, what? Why would that be there? I always assumed Tevinter would take issue with the whole ‘Magisters brought about the Darkspawn’ theory, and the Chant is full of that stuff.”

Fenris snorted. “Indeed, the Imperial Chant is quite different from your version; although, I am only familiar with a few sections. Two or three verses are used liberally, as support for the Magisterium, but the rest is hardly ever discussed. But, here, listen to this section:

The Old Gods will call to you,  
From their ancient prisons they will sing.  
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,  
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,  
The first of My children, lost to night.”

Silence, 3:6”

Anders absent-mindedly bit his lower lip, trying to recall where he had heard that before. “Silence… oh, that creepy blood writing that Merrill found in the tunnels was also from Silence. I wonder if it is just a non-sanctioned verse, or specifically part of the Imperial chant. Regardless, what’s more interesting is the implication that the Old Gods were somehow spirits and dragons at the same time. Unless it’s a metaphor. Or just wrong. Gah… I never realized before now how much of our history is full of holes and propaganda.”

Fenris nodded solemnly. “According to Danarius, the Orlesian Chantry did not claim that Magisters were responsible for Darkspawn until after the Third Blight was over. The long delay is taken as proof that the accusation is simply slander against traditional enemies.”

Anders thought on that for a moment – _when did the first writing about the Magisters Sidereal appear? –_ but he was in no condition to think more on the great mysteries. Somewhere, there must be actual answers. He suddenly leaned forward and scooped up one of Fenris’s hands between his. “I have a really important favor to ask you.”

Fenris’s brow quirked at the unusual gesture and sudden shift in topic. “I will not help your spirit become a dragon.”

Anders giggled. “Aww… a shame, really. You never know when you might need a spirit dragon. No, you lunatic. I want… I would _really_ appreciate it if… will you teach me to read Tevene?”

 _He must really be tired_ , Anders mused - Fenris’s face was just full of flagrant expressions that evening _._ The warrior looked surprised, then pleased, then somewhat smug. “What is in it for me?”

“Oh, come on. Bartering is beneath you.” Fenris didn’t balk. “Well, what do you want?”

Fenris looked up and tapped his chin dramatically. “Hmmmm. I can think of a few things.” He looked back down at Anders, a devious twinkle in his eye. “A favor to be called in at a future date. No questions asked.”

Anders wanted to laugh. It was a good sign that Fenris didn’t seem to realize how hopelessly enthralled he was; it was hardly a burden to agree to something in the future that he would inevitably agree to anyways. A small part of his mind wondered if Fenris knew that, and was just invoking a trade to make Anders feel better. The larger part of his mind only cared about finally being able to trace some of the missing pieces of this whole damnable Kirkwall puzzle.

“Deal. Starting tomorrow?”

“Why not now?” 

“No, absolutely not. You’re going to get some sleep. And don’t look at me like that, Fenris. It’s very effective.”

“So why…”

“Because it works!”

“Again, I fail to see –“

Anders shook his head. “Fenris, you need rest. Bodies do most of their restorative functions while you’re asleep. Look, I know you’re stubborn – too stubborn by half – and I am forever in awe of your self-discipline, but this is the healer speaking now: you need to sleep.”

Fenris huffed, and Anders mentally gauged his chances of being able to manhandle him up the stairs. Luckily it didn’t come to that, as the warrior sulkily stood and silently marched his way up the stairs. Anders followed a short time later, after he had tamped down the fire in the hearth and rinsed their dishes.

The warrior was silent as he slipped under the covers on his side of the bed. It struck Anders how quickly he had got used to having a 'side' of the bed, rather than just sprawling across it as he had always done. Surely that should have been a bigger adjustment? It was altogether strange how the two of them had just slotted into one another’s life.

Just as he got settled, and the rustling of covers gave way to the relative silence of Hightown at night, Fenris’s drowsy baritone rumbled in the still air. “Come here. I need a healer.” Fenris stretched his arm out, and Anders turned on his side and eagerly shuffled closer. There was some prodding and shifting, until finally his head rested comfortably on the warrior’s shoulder. Fenris wrapped the outstretched arm around him. Sleep came easily, and stayed throughout the night.

* * *

Idos, breakfast, a lesson in Tevene.

The return of a morning routine – with an engaging, if frustrating new addition – was more comforting than it had any right to be.

That is, it was until Fenris stood from the table, wrapped his arms briefly around Anders’ shoulders, and then strode purposefully out of the kitchen. Immediate and compelling suspicions leapt to Anders’ mind. He scrambled into the main hall just in time to see Fenris disappear down the steps to the Idos room. He jogged to catch up.

“Hold on just a minute – where do you think you’re going? Because if that hug was you saying you would like to initiate something right here, right now, I think you should know that you would meet with absolutely no objection.”

Fenris’s chuckle echoed up the staircase. “Mindreading. You are bad at it. As to where I am going, I am not certain you will like the answer.”

Anders stepped into the Idos room to see Fenris standing by the door opposite the one the party had emerged from the previous day. Both doors remained open; they had decided the previous night to engage the trap on the secret door in the main hall for security, but wait to take further measures after seeing what came of the group meeting. “Oh… Maker, no, you can’t be serious. Not now. We just--”

Fenris crossed his arms and waited patiently for the initial round of protests, but intervened before Anders could ramp up to full-blown petulance. “Mage,” he interrupted with a 'why do I put up with you' smirk, “Listen.” The warrior cupped his hands and made a low ‘whoop’ sound into the stairwell, a sound that echoed briefly and then disappeared. “I noticed this yesterday, when the others were celebrating. Boisterously.”

“Noticed… what, the echo? Oi, you’re going to have to spell it out for me here, Fenris, I’m… missing something.”

“Not the echo itself, but the duration. This is not another interminable staircase. These stairs lead to a room - and I want to find out what is in that room so we can close and lock these doors securely. No more surprise visitors from below.”

Anders tossed his head back and whined. “Can’t we just—”

“I am going. But you may remain here.” Fenris adopted an expression of feigned indifference, shrugging like he couldn’t be bothered either way. “If you are too… chicken?”

“What?? I’m not a chicken! And I’m not five… that doesn’t really work on adults.”

“Bawwwwwk…”

“You’re not seriously going to—”

“Bu-bu-buhgawwk.”

“Are we children now? Do you honestly think that is going to—”

“Bu-bu-bu—”

“FINE, fine, let’s go, just – _Maker,_ stop making that heinous noise!”

“I knew you would see reason.”

“Oh, that was _reason,_ was it? Getting bullied into exploring yet _another_ Tevinter death trap because you made chicken noises?”

“What else would you call it?”

“I don’t think there’s a word for it, honestly. Let’s just get this over with.”

Fenris gave a single, oddly magnanimous nod, setting a brisk pace down the steps. Anders wove a small orb of magelight in his palm, casting a pallid glare on the stone staircase.

He couldn’t decide if he was more impressed or more annoyed when, a very short time later, the stairs made a 90-degree turn and ended at the mouth of a large room. There were no glowstone braziers along the walls, but there were… windows?

Anders whistled. “Andraste’s ass, this place is _huge_. And fancy as hell.”

Fenris shot him a look, something akin to the patient amusement a parent might show at their child’s first attempt at drawing. “Very observant.”

 _Who was the one just making chicken noises?_ “It’s a gift.”

Fenris laughed. “Well, I think you should return it.”

The chamber _was_ huge; a rectangular room stretching at least as far as the footprint of the entire mansion, and nearly half as wide. And it _was_ fancy. Anders tried to take it all in but was struggling to believe this place had been a two-minute walk from the dilapidated mansion this whole time.

The entire floor was consumed by an intricate, geometric mosaic of high-contrast ebony and alabaster tiles, with repeating bursts of gold. The walls boasted false arches, much like the Idos room, but here the pillars were jet stone, banded in the center with more gold, and the inside of the arches continued the mosaic pattern of the floor. Every third arch sported a window in the shape of a stout double-ended arrow, and each was somehow backlit, spilling warm, golden light into the underground room.

An enormous, canopied bed was set off to the right side, shrouded in wispy white fabric that rippled with the faint breeze stirred by their movements. Beside it was a white marble altar with a now-familiar runed basin atop it, surrounded by bejeweled bone-handled shaving knives, ebony combs, and a long-necked alabaster ewer with gold-leaf bands striped across it.

Near the center of the long room, the walls to both left and right were covered by floor-to-ceiling cabinets of wood and glass, a protective casing for a stunning array of tomes and scrolls. Two expansive desks were pressed together in an L-shape in the far-left corner, creating a work surface nearly half the size of Anders’ bedroom. Statues, figurines, carpets, tapestries and banners decorated nearly every other flat surface, vertical or horizontal.

Anders was startled from his dumbfounded staring when Fenris gave a light tug on his wrist. “There are two more doors at the far side. Come.”

Anders tried to catalogue everything his eyes were seeing as they crossed the room, but it was just too lavish for description. “Who the hell lives like this?” he mused in awe.

“Any moderately influential Laetan, or an extremely poor or unpopular Altus.” Fenris’s tone had sobered, and Anders felt some of the awe drain out of him. _Right. Magisters, nightmares, blood mages… not a good place to drop my guard._

“Underground, though? What’s the point of setting up a swanky apartment _under_ your freaking mansion?”

Fenris looked at him like he was being intentionally difficult. “It is possible all Hightown mansions have below-ground bunkers. It is equally possible that this was a recent addition for an affiliate of Danarius’s, or that it was part of the tunnel systems before and was simply renovated for recent use. The mere existence of these quarters tells us nothing.”

“Well… it looks abandoned,” Anders noted, pointing to a long trestle table against the wall; atop it rested a trio of ebony bowls decorated with golden dragon insignia, and filled with slightly moldy fruit. “Whoever was here, the place has probably been empty for a few days, at least.”

“Around the same time we entered the tunnels? That does not seem like a coincidence.”

Anders poked his head through one of the doors, and probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find a smaller room almost completely devoted to a square, inlaid bath of white marble. It must have been at least two spans across, and half as deep, with the same intricate tile mosaic decorating the floor on every side. “ _Maker,_ are those… ferns? How do they grow down here? Plants need sunlight!” Fenris shrugged, apparently not as impressed by the mysterious greenery that sprouted from long, shallow planters alongside the bath.

Fenris stepped back out into the main chamber, examining the contents of an intricately carved wooden dresser while Anders poked and prodded the impossible ferns. He gave up, sensing no enchantment or other magical means of preservation, and stepped out to join Fenris’s pilfering efforts. Just as he emerged from the bath, Fenris slammed the lid on a wooden box and set it back inside the drawer he was snooping in.

“What have you got there?”

“Nothing.” Fenris said, much too quickly.

“Ohhh no,” Anders exclaimed, darting to the warrior’s side with the speed he typically reserved for evading capture. “You found something in that dresser. What is it? Why don’t you want to show me? Is it an illicit substance? Lewd literature? Fancy booze you don’t want to share? C’mon, Fenris, show meeeee…” He tugged and pulled at the warrior’s arms, trying to prise open the drawer while Fenris tried to keep it shut while simultaneously wrestling his arms away. “Nothing. It is nothing.”

“It is clearly not nothing, you stubborn arse!”

The brawling came to an abrupt halt when a noise caused Anders to freeze: a low, menacing growl. He spun towards it, and found himself facing the second door, cattycorner to the bath. “Did you hear that?”

Fenris nodded. Without hesitation, he pulled Lethendralis from his back and stepped between Anders and the door. A barrier settled over the warrior moments later, another over Anders just afterwards. Slowly, Fenris gripped and turned the door handle. In a swift, coordinated motion, he pushed the door, stepped into the room, and flowed into a ready stance.

The smell hit Anders first: urine and rotting meat.

There were no lights in the room, but his tiny ball of magelight still lingered in the air above him. The growl sounded again, much louder this time.

Followed by a low, furious hiss.

“Throw me in a fire and call me Andraste… Fenris! Is that…??”

“Felis silvestris, yes. What in the world is this doing here? These are very valuable animals. Felis breeding is among the most prestigious--”

“Ohhhhhhh LOOK at youuuuu!”

“—trades in Tevinter. And this one appears to be quite young – possibly six or eight weeks old? Which—" 

“You’re just a widdle baby!!” Anders squeed.

“—would suggest this animal was intentionally abandoned. Perhaps because it is so small.”

“What?? You’re not small at all! Especially not if you’re just a baby, huh, widdle guy?”

“The Felis are large animals – a healthy, full-grown male would be approximately eye-level with your hip. This one must be a runt.”

Anders was already kneeling beside the robust – and _filthy –_ cage, making kissy noises and crooning, “You’re not a runt, you’re _beautiful,_ look at you, ohhhh sweetheart, it’s okay… here, kitty kitty kitty, no one will hurt you. Who’s a beautiful boy, yes you are!”

“That, I believe, is a female.”

“Who’s a beautiful girl, yes you are! Don’t worry about Grouchy Daddy over there, he’s not so bad, ohhh sweetie, it’s okay…”

The wildcat was arched up in the back of the cage, ears pinned back, hissing and spitting furiously. For a so-called kitten, she was already the size of a large housecat. The light from Anders’ hovering flame highlighted how thin the animal was, a bundle of bones wrapped in downy, silver fur. Black spots peppered her silvered back, but the pattern morphed into lines down her legs and haunches. A slender band of black traced down her bony spine, spreading to shadow the tip of her long, elegant tail in inky black fur.

“Oh, you poor sweetheart, you’re hungry, aren’t you? Maker, how long have you been down here?”

“And who is supposed to be feeding you?” Fenris growled. “It would appear she is one of a litter. Look.”

Anders tore his eyes away briefly, noticing for the first time that there were six other stout, unoccupied cages in a row beside the first. At the far end, a much larger cage was padded with thick blankets. Anders squinted: thick blankets that were torn and bloody.

“Only the most wealthy and connected Magisters can afford such a prize - they are extraordinarily intelligent and fierce animals. It would appear that whoever occupied these quarters had a pregnant queen they did not wish to part with. Or had an extremely wealthy buyer in the area.”

Anders frowned. The kitten was captivating, but the grim surroundings managed to rouse him to the immediate concerns. Maker only knew how long she had been without food or water. He hurried back to the main room, snatching the runed basin from atop the bedside washing stand. When he returned, Fenris was crouched beside the occupied cage, his voice taking on a distinctly low and soothing quality that Anders recognized – it had been directed towards him after his nightmare. Anders couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the overtly hostile kitten had mellowed somewhat.

With slow, non-threatening motions, he knelt beside the cage, fumbling with the heavy bolt latch on the door. Fenris continued his litany of soothing chatter; she hissed and took a swipe with surprisingly large paws when Anders swung the door free, but quieted shortly thereafter when no one moved to invade her space.

Anders placed the basin - half-full from his touch - at the front of the cage, then leaned back on his heels and looked away, studying her with his peripheral vision. “The poor dear must be starving. And terrified. What must you think of the world, little one? What have your few weeks of life been like?” 

The Felis smelled the water immediately. Her little nose – a small splash of pink surrounded by black – flared and stretched toward the scent. She didn’t lunge for it right away, Anders noticed with no small amount of admiration; she was a stubborn little girl. She paced a few times in the back of her cage, agitated and suspicious, casting mistrustful looks at the two large strangers. The thirst won out eventually, however; the little wildcat slinked forward, low to the ground, every muscle coiled in preparation to flee or fight. At last, she drank.

Anders waited a while, wondering if he should remove the bowl so she didn’t drink herself to vomiting, but the brilliant little beauty pulled back on her own and looked up at them. Her ears were enormous, Anders noticed, as she trained them forward for the first time. She looked at the two of them dead on, her blue eyes haughty. Imperiously, she opened her mouth and screamed at them; it was the only word Anders could think of to describe the noise. A noise somewhere on the spectrum between a kitten’s yowl, a raspy growl, and a human toddler screaming.

Anders stifled a laugh. “Well, I agree, little one! You need to get some food in that widdle belly.” He turned to Fenris. “Do you want to stay with her while I grab something?”

Fenris shrugged, trying to look indifferent, but mostly just looking at the kitten. Anders couldn’t blame him. “Don’t worry little one, I’m coming right back, and you’re going to eat like a queen.” He started to leave but turned back at the door, attempting to whisper but failing due to breathless excitement. “Hey, Fenris? Do they eat normal cat things?”

Fenris chuckled wryly. “It is unlikely she speaks Common. There is no need to whisper. And they eat anything. Lots of anything.”

“Personal experience?”

“Not as such. Danarius was not fond of animals, even prestigious ones, but several of his allies were. As adults, Felis are mostly self-sufficient hunters, but they can survive on plants, grain – almost anything, for a time. It is rumored that some develop a thirst for blood after they make their first human kill.”

Anders paled. “We still have that barrel of salt cod you refused to touch. Would salt cod be alright in lieu of human blood?”

Fenris paused a moment, looking at him with an unreadable expression. “I do not know if salt is healthy for young animals. You will rinse the cod?”

Anders grinned. “Yeah, of course.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the ground a moment before he straightened. “We’re… we’re definitely keeping her, right?”

Fenris rolled his eyes, utterly failing to look annoyed. “You speak of your brave Ser Pounce-a-Lot more than you speak of any other individual from your past. I did not realize the question was up for debate.”

Anders stepped back in the room to wrap his arms around the warrior from behind.

_This man._

* * *

“You know what I don’t get? Why leave one behind, if they are so sought-after?”

“A breeder’s reputation is paramount.”

Anders held out another small flake of cod, waiting. The kitten had finished off the small dish of goat’s milk that he had placed in her cage, and was now faced with the dilemma of having to approach him for each bite of fish. She would pace circuits in the back of the cage, then advance enough to lick the empty milk dish, and eventually dart forward to snag the fish he held out, retreating immediately to the back of her cage to eat it.

Anders fell silent, his heart breaking at the implication. “So, they… they…?”

“Felis exhibiting undesirable traits are culled. The same thing was done with mabari. Did you know they originated in Tevinter?”

“What? But they’re basically synonymous with Ferelden culture…”

While they spoke, Anders had been idly probing the kitten with his magic, trying to determine if she was healthy aside from being half-starved and dehydrated. It was difficult, though; he wasn’t particularly familiar with feline anatomy, and the largely instinctive nature of his healing abilities was not exactly instinctive on non-humanoid bodies. He was pretty certain she wasn’t harboring parasites or hidden wounds, but the lack of assurance was more than a little irritating for a spirit healer who was accustomed to full-body diagnostics in seconds.

“The Magisters bred them originally. It is said the mabari defected during the Imperium’s invasion of Ferelden. Merely a tale, but I rather like the idea that they found the barbarians more… palatable.”

Anders’ shoulders and chest shook with the effort of restraining his laughter, but he was determined; a loud, sudden noise now might eradicate the small progress they had made with earning the kitten’s trust.

“Well. This little girl is going to be openly anti-Magister, aren’t you sweetheart?” Anders grinned down at the little thing, her belly distended from the relatively small meal. “Let’s let her out to explore a little. I want to look through those books, anyways. If we’re going to lock this place up, I want to haul out anything useful first.”

“As you pointed out, the occupant has not been gone long, which makes it more likely they will return. I think it would be wise to prepare a trap for them.”

Anders stepped back from the cage, placing a flake of cod a few feet outside it. “But what if they don’t return? Or, what if they do, but they bring a dozen of their best demon friends?”

Fenris frowned, following Anders to the doorway. “Preparation, then. We need to find any doorways leading from these quarters—”

“Meaning we need Izzy.”

“—and we need to seal off all but one, to create a chokepoint. It would help to know any information the Guard obtains while mapping and closing off the surface tunnels.”

“Meaning we need Aveline.”

“And, ideally, we keep a watch posted here at all times.”

“Meaning we need Hawke.”

“Not necessarily. There are alternatives, if Hawke is not amenable. Isabela’s assistance is the most crucial, but Donnic might be willing to share information from the Guard, and we can perform the watch.”

“Still, much easier if we can get the crew on board. Though, I’m not sure how much goodwill Hawke has for either of us after our jaunt down the tunnels of incomparable evil.”

Fenris had wandered over to the desk as they spoke, while Anders was busy laying a trail of fish out into the large chamber. He was just setting up a hidden payload in a cubby behind a statue in one of the arches, hoping the kitten might feel more secure if she could hide a little while eating, when a choked sound made him jump.

“Damnit!” Fenris snarled. Anders whirled at the expletive, wholly unnerved by Fenris’s uncharacteristic outburst. “What? Maker, Fenris, what is it?”

Fenris held up a small, golden and ivory bauble. “A seal stamp. A six-headed serpent, specifically. That is the crest of House Nenealeus.”

“Who…?”

“Magister Nenealeus is a ‘close friend’ of Danarius.”

“Why is the entirety of Tevinter suddenly so interest in Kirkwall?” He sighed, noticing how tense Fenris was, and softened his tone. “Do you think this ‘friend’ is here, in the city?”

Fenris stared at the seal stamp a moment before heaving it furiously across the room. “I do not know. It is unlikely. Nenealeus does, however, train the most prized slave fighters in the Imperium. It is possible he has sent a crew to capture me for Danarius.”

“Or, perhaps this other Magister is one of the other voices from my nightmare. They may be working together to capture Justice. Or maybe this other asshole is interested in something entirely unrelated to us.”

Fenris stared at him a moment, his eyes distant and unfocused beneath a deeply furrowed brow. “I do not know.” He looked down, his hands clenched and posture stiff. “I do not like it,” he murmured miserably.

Anders closed the distance between them in a few long paces. His fingers wrapped around the back of Fenris’s upper arm, while his other hand smoothed up the warrior’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck. Fenris leaned forward, resting his head on Anders’ chest. “I do not like it,” he repeated.

 _I don’t like that you’re in the middle of it,_ Anders thought as he held Fenris. He wasn’t sure how the warrior had managed to maintain his composure as the odds seemed to continuously increase against them, as problems continued to grow in depth and scope - but it wasn’t sustainable.

The fact that Fenris was just now showing any glimpse of strain under the pressure was nothing short of remarkable. Curiously, Anders felt a strange calm settle over him in response to Fenris’s outburst. Fenris had been the calm, confident rock between them for… well, quite a while, now. He could step in, for now. He also knew that the quickest way to annoy Fenris was to pity him, and so he kept silent.

A silence that was interrupted by a raucous scream from right beside them.

Anders was not, in any way, prepared for the noise. His stomach hollowed out at the same time as every muscle in his body spasmed in unison; he was pretty sure he accidentally jabbed Fenris in the ribcage with the outsized startle reflex.

The kitten looked up at them with innocent blue eyes, her massive ears perked forward. As if to take advantage of the attention, her mouth yawned open, putting large incisors on display, as she unleashed a second ear-grating yowl.

“ _Brasca!”_ he choked out, panting, as his lizard brain finally identified the source. He stared down at the kitten while his heart tried valiantly to pound its way out of his chest. “Maker, little one - you scared the stones right out of my pouch!”

Fenris, he noted, had not jumped like a startled pheasant; rather, the warrior seemed quite charmed by the atrocious noise. _Perhaps he’s just accustomed to it?_ Or, more likely, the warrior was just made of sterner stuff. Anders tried to cover up the embarrassing over-reaction by crouching and offering the kitten more fish. “Well, jeez, someone is feeling much braver, aren’t they?”

To Anders’ chagrin, Fenris’s mood seemed much improved over his little display of histrionics. The warrior looked between the kitten and Anders, his lips pressed in a firm line that quivered at the edges. “At least one of you is.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’ve just never heard such a godsawful noise come out of such a cute little face before,” he protested weakly. “Just so you know, he’s the mean one,” Anders stage-whispered to the kitten.

“I have never heard an adult Felis make such a noise. It will likely change with time.” Fenris knelt beside him, looking away as the kitten sniffed the surroundings – likely in pursuit of more fish, Anders deduced. He handed a few flakes to Fenris, who wrinkled his nose, but held one out in a flat palm near the ground.

The kitten was a smooth operator; she trotted away a few paces, tail straight up in the air and puffed up like a pipe cleaner, then seemed to grow distracted by a scent. As if by pure accident, she approached Fenris from behind, then suddenly darted up beside him to rob his hand of fish.

“She needs a name.” Fenris announced, watching her retreat with her prize.

Anders hid his smile by turning his attention to the collection of tomes. “Indeed. Any thoughts?”

“No.”

“Very helpful. Ok, well, what about Asherah? The folktale heroine who rode to battle atop a lion? It seems appropriately feisty for this little girl.”

Fenris frowned, following him while casting looks over his shoulder. “That sounds too much like ‘serrah’. There was a story in my mythology book about a queen that was half white tiger. Her name was Sekhmet.”

“That doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue,” Anders said, pulling out scrolls at random. “Although, I remember reading a similar story about a woman named Bast.”

“No.” Fenris objected quickly. “It is too close to the Qunlat word ‘bas’. ‘Thing.’”

Anders tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We could just give her a classic Ferelden feline name, like Leonara.”

Fenris huffed dismissively. “She is no common feline.”

Anders looked sidelong at the warrior, then over his shoulder at the kitten, who was rubbing up against the column of one of the arches. “I honestly didn’t anticipate you being so picky.”

Fenris made an affronted noise. “Not wishing to name a Felis ‘thing’ is hardly equivalent to being ‘picky’.”

“Oh, look, little one – Grouchy Daddy gets all puffed up when he’s defensive. Just like you!”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed; a moment later, something soft and squishy careened into Anders’ temple, sticking for a moment before sliding off. “EW! Fenris! Did you just throw FISH at me??” A second flake of fish hit him square in the nose as he rounded accusingly on the warrior.

“Ohhh no, hell no—” Anders reached into the little pouch of fish he had brought down, grabbing a large chunk and ducking behind a statue. “You do realize I have a _lot_ more ammo than you?”

“You also have significantly worse aim,” Fenris called back.

Anders whipped a fistful of cod towards the warrior, but a silver blur streaked through the air - at least three feet off the ground - and snatched the fish mid-flight.

“Holy shit! Did you _see_ that?”

Fenris stared openly, clearly impressed despite himself. “And YOU wanted to call her ‘thing’. Shame on you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sassy new companion is inspired by silver Savannah cats ([here](http://f3savannahcat.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/silver-spotted-tabby-savannah.jpg) and [here](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/5b/f8/14/5bf8140120645db39a5a47a3d628971f.jpg) and [here](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/53adb125e4b094aac18a8ee7/1446051925683-DARSGFPHFCQRWA8CDO64/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kDFgITcRoterXoQdllT5ciUUqsxRUqqbr1mOJYKfIPR7LoDQ9mXPOjoJoqy81S2I8N_N4V1vUb5AoIIIbLZhVYxCRW4BPu10St3TBAUQYVKcV7ZyRJyI8bwZiMJRrgPaAKqUaXS0tb9q_dTyNVba_kClt3J5x-w6oTQbPni4jzRa/front-10.jpg?format=750w)), just... bigger. The sound I was trying to describe comes from a [baby bobcat](https://youtu.be/_9nslhgexbw?t=18), which is simultaneously adorable and wtf. 
> 
> Nenealeus is from the Blue Wraith comic. He is a major asshat. Nuff said for now. 
> 
> Last thing is a bit tangential: I’m sure it’s pretty obvious by now, but I pull a lot of in-game dialogue into this fic, and that means I’m a frequent lurker on the wiki. One thing I didn’t notice while playing is that each character has only a handful of responses to KOs, with the exception of Hawke (who just shouts the person’s name except for extended dialogue for Carver, Bethany, Varric and, strangely, Anders). Fenris doesn’t comment if any mages fall, except Anders (unless Hawke is a mage). Anders doesn’t have lines for Merrill or Isabela. I just thought it was cute that these two boys have KO lines for one another, but they didn’t have to. *shrug*


	32. Avalanche

The felis grew bolder by the minute; just being freed from her cage seemed to rouse some zest and curiosity from her. Anders broke his own heart wondering if it was the first time she had been able to explore.

By the time Anders insisted on going upstairs to prepare lunch – Fenris was still recovering his strength, after all - she had explored the entirety of the lavish quarters and had curled up for a nap, a dainty silver ball of fluff in the center of the spacious canopied bed.

“I feel bad sneaking out while she is sleeping,” Anders fretted.

“We are not sneaking.”

“Well, what if the previous occupant comes back and discovers she’s free? Or, what if blood mages - or demons - or Maker knows what else show up?”

“In the next fifteen minutes? She will hide, or flee, or fight. She is hardly defenseless, as I believe she has proven.” Fenris nodded meaningfully at Anders’ hand, which had received a pretty egregious scratch when the kitten had made her stance on the issue of snuggles from relative strangers quite clear.

“She’s a softy underneath. I can tell. She just needs some time to settle in, and then she’ll be cuddling with the best of ‘em. The poor thing has probably never felt a gentle touch.”

“Felis are not known for being particularly cuddly. They are predators, painstakingly bred for guerilla warfare and personal security.” The warrior looked away, and restlessly reached up to adjust his tunic. _Odd… if anything, I’m the fidgeter_. A moment later, Fenris grumbled, “Though, I suppose if anyone could domesticate a peak predator, it would be you.”

Anders decided to take that as a compliment.

Peak predator or no, it came as a pleasant surprise when, mere minutes after lunch preparations began, a silver blur darted in the kitchen and ducked behind Fenris’s nest of bean sacks. And so the day progressed; the kitten adamantly refused to be alone, but was equally unwilling to get too close.

The Great Name Debate had continued throughout the day with dozens of casualties. There was still no resolution as the day marched on, and they had to call a cease-fire in order to determine what to do with the nameless felis during the rapidly approaching meeting at the Hanged Man.

After more milk and a generous helping of pork chop - Anders’ lunch, which he had shredded and set aside for her hours before - the kitten was asleep again, this time on the bed in the spare bedroom. He had outfitted the room with as many spare blankets as he could find, the runed basin, and an impromptu litterbox comprised of a canvas bag in a wooden crate, filled with stale barley he had stolen from Fenris’s nest.

He now stood in the doorway, staring at the magnificent, scrawny little beast, while Fenris paced the hallway.

“Rhea?” Fenris offered as he passed near the doorway.

“Eh.” Anders said with an ambivalent tilt of the head. “Mikhalin? Mikha for short.”

“The word ‘meek’ should not make an appearance in her name.”

Anders snorted. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.” He looked sidelong at the pacing elf. “What are we going to do with her during the meeting? I don’t really want to lock her up in there. I’d feel like an arse… she’s been locked up long enough.”

“I hardly think we can sneak her through Hightown, given that she is not currently willing to be touched. And I would worry more about what would happen if she were left to explore unsupervised. You have far too many potions and…” he gestured broadly, “dangerous things.”

“Wow. Now that I think about it… we need to kitten-proof this whole place. I need to lock up all those relics, and then there’s your sword, and Tershiron’s staff, and – oh, do you think she can drown in that basin? Maybe I should move it.”

“Exercising caution is not the same as being preposterous. She will not drown. In fact, felis are quite adept swimmers.”

“Hmph. I feel entitled to a little preposterousness. She’s so widdle.” His eyes jumped from the silver-furred beauty on the bed to the white-haired vision pacing behind him, wishing he could stare fondly at both simultaneously. “Here’s an idea… do you think Hawke could be persuaded to move the meeting here?”

Fenris stopped pacing for a moment to consider. “That may not be your worst idea. Perhaps Isabela would be willing to search for entrances to the bunker while she is here. Although, the mansion lacks the Hanged Man’s… ambiance.”

“Bit of an understatement… but at least _our_ drinks aren’t half rat piss.”

“You are deluded if you think it is only half.” 

Anders snickered.

“Nemea?” Fenris offered.

“Oh, I like that one. That’s really not bad, actually. Hard to shorten, though… Nem isn’t much of a nickname.”

Fenris looked down, his voice unusually soft. “Mea.”

“Oh! Oh, Fenris… her nickname would literally be—”

“She is of me.”

Anders tried his best not to embarrass the warrior, but _Maker_ he felt like his insides were melting. _Big ole’ softy._

“I love it. I’ll ask her what she thinks whenever she wakes up.” He stared at the uncomfortable warrior, his heart clenching inside his chest. _Of course Fenris would pick the perfect fucking name…_

Fenris cleared his throat. “I will go speak with Hawke. You should find a safe place to store any potentially fatal relics, potions or ingredients.”

“Or you could stay here, and I could give you reason to forget the meeting entirely…”

Fenris gave him an exaggerated eye-roll. “The meeting is extremely pertinent to your interests.”

Anders sidled up behind the warrior, lightly smoothing his hands up the firm expanse of Fenris’s back. “True… but other things are also pertinent to my interests.”

Fenris tensed slightly, then stepped away. “The tunnels will not go away simply because we skip the meeting.”

Anders watched him for a moment, confused. Fenris was not one to miss his less-than-subtle advances. “I was mostly joking. I mean, of course we have to go… what, you’re the only one who’s allowed to be an unbearable tease?”

Fenris glanced at him a moment, looking like he was about to say something, then stopped himself. He sighed, his expression softening. “That is not… no. I apologize.” He dropped his gaze, then turned towards the bedroom.

Anders bit his lip, every instinct demanding that he smooth over the awkwardness. “Well, if negotiations don’t go well, Hawke thinks you have a cute butt. Maybe you ‘accidentally’ drop something. You know, ‘whoops, clumsy me…’”

Fenris looked over his shoulder and scowled – acerbic retort undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue – but again, he seemed to reconsider. After a pause, he made a show of looking up and tapping his chin thoughtfully. “She does, does she? Perhaps I will be gone longer than anticipated.”

It was Anders’ turn to scowl. “I won’t heal you if Izzy shanks you in the kidney. Again.”

Fenris retreated to Anders’ bedroom, where his armor was unceremoniously strewn across the floor. “Yes, you would.” Fenris’s voice drifted out of the bedroom, low and gritty.

 _Yeah, I would._ “But I won’t like it!” he called back.

* * *

As soon as Fenris left, Anders made quick work of relocating his meager collection of potions and ingredients in one of the numerous trunks stacked in his room - the same one Fenris had hidden his new robe in. He briefly considered spending some time analyzing the looted relics from the tunnels, but it seemed like too big a task for the afternoon. Instead, he bundled them up in a canvas sack, and tucked them away in the trunk as well. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled one of the few padlocks that actually had associated keys from his desk, and locked the lot of it up. 

That task complete, Anders paced aimlessly for a while. It was odd, not having the warrior around. He felt restless.

With a spike of agitation at the thought – _I lived alone for over a decade –_ he took a firm hold of his wandering thoughts. He had a vague sense of unease about Fenris’s behavior since the disturbing discovery of yet another Magister in town, but he was also fully aware of his tendency to catastrophize.

Instead of dwelling, he threw himself into preparations for possible visitors. He brought up an assortment of wine, collected spare chairs, lit a fire in the hearth. After checking again on the sleeping felis, and at a loss for what else to do, he turned instead to the sheaf of papers Feynriel had left him. Without his blessing, his mind fixated on the passing minutes.

Reading became futile when a spot of silver appeared in his periphery. A grin stole across his face, almost despite himself – the little girl was the best possible distraction. He rummaged around in the pantry for a piece of the dried jerky they typically reserved for long missions with Hawke, then settled into Fenris’s nest, low to the ground, and broke off a piece to hold down for her. Deliberately avoiding looking at her, he kept his eyes trained on the papers in front of him.

The kitten blithely ignored his bait for quite some time, moving about the kitchen in mildly uncoordinated bursts of movement; she would dash across the room, then freeze, sniff about, wander, then sprint somewhere else. She bolted out of the room entirely at no provocation, then tore back in moments later. After a moment to lick her paw, and a long, appraising stare, she trotted up to him, trail straight up, and then flattened herself on her belly a few feet away from Anders.

She stared a moment longer, then crept her way forward slowly, looking entirely like the tiny hunter she was: pupils dilated, eyes fixed on the jerky, she stalked her long-dead prey. With only the slightest warning, she exploded forward, snagging the jerky and streaking off proudly with the spoils of conquest.

This pattern repeated until, after the third piece of jerky, the kitten took to playing with her food; she tossed it, chased it, batted at it… ah, it was such a balm to the soul to see the little girl acting like a kitten. He had worried; she was bound to be quite different from the tabbies he’d befriended in the past, and some part of him was afraid that, whatever her life experience had been up until now, it might have crushed something inside her. Something so simple as watching her play assuaged most of his concerns.

Shortly after she finally ate the last piece of jerky, the kitten unceremoniously curled herself up into a little ball between the wall and the pile of sacks, not even a foot away from Anders. He looked down at her fondly, then mouthed the name Fenris had suggested, trying out the feel in his mouth. After a moment, he said it out loud. “Nemea.” Outsized ears perked and swiveled backwards at the sound of his voice.

“What do you think, little girl, hmmm? Mea?”

The kitten lifted her head and blinked up at him; her watery blue eyes were half-lidded, but Anders could see the fierce intelligence boiling behind them - like she somehow understood something important was up for debate. “Is that kitten consent? Little Mea? Your namesake would be a mighty feline of legend, the Nemean lion. What do you think about that?”

The kitten stared back at him, unblinking, for a long moment. At length, she put her head down and stretched, exposing some of her belly. “Does that mean you approve? Or you couldn’t care less?” Anders chuckled. Cautiously, oh-so-slowly, he stretched his hand out. “Uh-oh, you can’t show me that widdle belly and expect to get away with it, little Mea. I’m going to scritch that fluffy tum, so you just go ahead and scratch back if you need to.” 

The kitten blithely ignored his hovering hand, so Anders stretched out his fingers to lightly trail along her side; his first real contact with the kitten, and _Maker,_ she was softer than goose down. His heart broke a little when she flinched, but she didn’t try to rip his arm off, which he took as a good sign. He murmured the name over and over, his fingers lightly trailing along her exposed side and belly, swallowing over the lump in his throat. “It’s ok little Mea, sweet girl, you’ll see. We’re pretty nice, most of the time. And you’re safe here. Oh, little miss Mea.”

The sound of the front door swinging open sent her careening out of the room faster than Anders could blink.

Anders gritted his teeth, an irrational frustration spiking inside him. He resolutely moved over to one of the chairs at the table, staring intently at the sheaf of papers. Fenris called out from the main hall, “Hawke agreed, eventually. The crew will be here at sundown.” There were some rustling sounds, and then the warrior stuck his head in the kitchen. “I need to bathe – I was informed that I smell strongly of fish,” he said testily. Anders momentarily lost hold of his irritation as the fish-fight memory bloomed fresh in his mind, and a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

When Fenris re-emerged in the kitchen a while later, his absurdly, perfectly, magnificently tousled hair was damp, and he smelled faintly of the gritty oat and herb soap he preferred. Anders stubbornly ignored the sensory feedback.

“You rearranged furniture,” the warrior stated, a hint of query in his tone.

Anders nodded without looking up. “I figured people would want a place to sit, if they agreed to meet here. I was starting to wonder if you encountered trouble.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fenris’s eyes narrow. “Is the kitten alright?”

Anders nodded again. “She played, a bit. Probably wore herself out; I doubt she got much exercise in that cage. She does seem to approve of the name, though.”

Fenris eyed him appraisingly, then came to sit across the table from him. “Something is wrong,” he announced flatly.

Anders looked up at him - really looked at the warrior’s confused, slightly concerned expression. Immediately, he felt his irritation vanish only to be replaced with sheepishness. “Oh? What’s wrong?”

Fenris’s brows drew down. “You tell me.”

Anders dropped his gaze, unable to point to anything in particular, just his own constantly humming worries. “Nothing. I’m glad you got Hawke to agree. And now, I think it’s my turn for a bath.” 

Anders made a hasty exit, noticing as he passed through the door to the main hall that two large sacks were resting on the trestle table. _So that was the rustling I heard… Fenris must have gone to the market._ As usual, his worries proved unfounded; there was a perfectly good explanation for the warrior being gone so long.

* * *

“Just so you know, I have some friends in the Merchants Guild that could turn a pretty penny selling this stuff. You could probably buy this place and your two neighbors on the statuary alone,” Varric said, offering a low whistle for emphasis.

“What I want to know,” Hawke said with a grin, “is how's this is going to fit into your grand tale, Varric? ‘Hawke and friends walked for a really long time in nasty tunnels, then found an underground palace that smelled like cat shit.’"

“See, it writes itself.”

The gang had arrived as a full unit a short time earlier, likely a result of not having gotten the news about the relocation until they met up at the Hanged Man. Anders’ meager preparations had proved unnecessary, as the amalgam of personalities came to a rare unanimous agreement about exploring the bunker as soon as its discovery was disclosed. Izzy and Fenris took a wine bottle and passed it between them, Hawke took one for herself, and everyone else just trudged – with varying degrees of reluctance – towards the secret door in the main hall.

Anders had to give Mea credit – when she didn’t want to be seen, she _vanished_. Since the moment the main hall filled with seven boisterous bodies, he’d seen neither hide nor hair of her.

Now, a short while after the start of this sanctioned home invasion, and after several minutes of impressed whistles and jokes about which things were small enough to pilfer away in pockets, ‘Hawke and Friends’ spread out in the bunker, filling it with their trademark banter, grousing, and teasing.

“Whoever could afford to outfit this place is clearly a person of means. Do we really want to antagonize them by selling all their furniture?”

“What, you don’t think they’re antagonized already, Aveline? I mean, it’s pretty suspicious that we get chased out of the tunnels by a so-called honor guard of Tevinter soldiers, and then come to find out that some rich bastard recently evacuated their plush little bolt-hole under the mansion – which is technically owned by another gaping Tevinter asshole, I might add.”

“Must you be so vulgar, Hawke?”

Izzy - who was drinking heavily and groping stone walls with intent after failing to find any hidden entrances on her first pass - cut in. “Aw, c’mon big girl. You love it. A woman who can cut loose sometimes? Get a little colorful? Threaten the imperialist oppressors like a proper hero? I know there’s a part of you that wants Donnic to cut it out with the sensual massages and just swoop in, talk dirty, and give you a good old fashioned, headboard slamming--”

“If you don't shut your mouth, I'm going to slam your head against something.”

Izzy whistled. “Touchy…”

Merrill stepped up beside Aveline, raising her hand to point accusingly at the canopy bed. “This bed is impossible. I’m pretty sure, anyways. The desk, too. And those cages. How did all this large furniture get into a room that has no entrances other than a tiny staircase?”

Fenris frowned; he looked uneasily at Merrill, and Anders suspected he was castigating himself for failing to notice something that the perplexing Dalish woman had picked up on. “It is possible that materials were moved in and construction occurred here.”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t the noise have raised some eyebrows though? We’re not far from the surface, here.” The young elven mage paced a few steps, looking puzzled. 

While Merrill – and, probably Fenris – dwelled on the impossible furniture, Aveline unfurled a parchment and laid it out across the desk at the back of the room. A map of Kirkwall, replete with notes, and a small handful of circled locations, looked up at them. “Unfortunately, the guard has only been able to identify three entrances to the deep tunnels so far. The sewer system is connected to a warren of surface passages, but the criminal organizations continue to impede our progress there. Every time we clear one out, three more take its place.” 

She frowned down at the map, eyes narrowed indignantly as if the parchment had personally offended her. “Recently, one of my guards approached me with the idea of modeling the tunnels using clay. It would provide a visual of the tunnels themselves, which may lead to new insights as to how they are connected. We have a dedicated table in the barracks with a large city map on top - the plan is to shape the tunnels based on paces and orientation, but we are running into difficulties. For one thing, getting an accurate map of Kirkwall, one that is proportionate and to scale, is no small task. The idea is a good one, but I’m afraid it will not be of much use for quite some time. Unless any of you have cartographer friends? Or perhaps cartographer birdies?”

Varric didn’t seem to catch the joke lobbed his way; he was busy scowling. “I don’t care what the blasted tunnels look like; I just want to keep that damn lyrium away from this damned city. It’s bad news, Hawke.”

Anders cleared his throat. “I agree with Varric. Whatever happens, the mages - hell, the entirety of Kirkwall – will be vulnerable as long as that lyrium is spreading beneath it. Not to mention whatever else is down there. For what it’s worth, I may have a lead on where to find some answers, but it’s not going to be much help anytime soon. But we can’t just cave it in without bringing the entire city down, and you saw that place, Varric – it’s huge.”

“So, seal it all up and call it a day. No maps required.”

“We do not have even a cursory understanding of the entrances and exits, Varric. Hence the flaw with ‘sealing it up’, and hence, the map,” Aveline argued.

Varric huffed a sigh, visibly frustrated. He grumbled something that may have been ‘hence your face’ _,_ but then fell silent. At length, he looked up to Anders with a defeated expression. “Do I even want to know what kind of ‘lead’ you’re following?”

Anders fished out the array of notes from Feynriel. “Well, you all noticed how that lyrium runs hot, right? And it reacted strangely to a frost spell I cast on that creature we found, the one with the Grey Warden cloak. Well, I have a note in here about ice. Ice that never melts. But that’s about as far as I got, so… not much help for now, like I said.”

Varric’s chuckle was achingly grim and hopeless. “Well, that’s just fu—”

“What are you looking at, kitten?” Izzy interrupted, much to Anders’ dismay. He’d never heard that particular swear from the dwarf.

The Dalish woman was pacing in a circle near the center of the quarters, eyes up, finger on her chin. “Oh – sorry, did I miss anything important? I was just wondering why there is a tapestry on the ceiling, there.” She pointed, and every companion tilted their head back in unison to follow her gesture.

“I never noticed that before,” Anders replied, craning his head back to look up at the single tapestry held through entirely mysterious means to the high ceiling.

“Oh, no one ever looks up,” Merrill replied consolingly.

“Well, I’d love to investigate, but I don’t happen to have a 20-foot ladder on hand,” Izzy rejoined.

“We could bring down crates and trunks from upstairs, make a pyramid,” Anders suggested.

“Maybe if we moved the canopy bed, Aveline might be able to reach,” Hawke posed.

“I could try to get a grappling hook in the rock – Bianca can fire with plenty of power, when needed,” Varric offered.

“Oh, look there,” Merrill chirped. “These are just miniatures of the same tapestry.” She walked to one wall, opposite the midpoint of the room, where there was indeed a miniature version of the same tapestry; an identical twin hung on the opposite side of the room. Merrill pulled the tapestry up and ran dainty hands over the smooth stone beneath.

“I already checked under those – no hidden mechanisms like the ones in the sex dungeon…”

Just as Izzy trailed off, Merrill bit her lip hard, and a series of clanking noises set Anders’ skin prickling – it sounded like some of the gear mechanisms he had heard operating in the Deep Roads. The low clicking and grinding continued for a minute, then cut off with a distinct _thunk_.

“Oh, it worked!” Merrill cried happily. “Sorry, I know you disapprove of blood magic, but it worked in the tunnels, and, well,” she cut off with a shrug. “Let me look at the other one.”

“Wait, wait – before you touch anything else, I want everyone back in the staircase. You might be setting off a trap, for all we know.” Hawke crossed her arms in that posture that seemed to have universal effect on all who thought to argue with her. Without complaint, the entire party moved towards the staircase, leaving Merrill standing alone by the second tapestry. Anders watched closely as she waved her hand over the seemingly bare stone, and the whirring and grating started up again. She scrambled inelegantly away, towards the staircase, then turned to watch. 

Seemingly by magic, a section of the roof lowered on chains until it touched the ground. Once the mechanism ground to a halt, a ten-foot wide section of the ceiling was lowered, forming a ramp that started at the left side of the chambers, angling up at a steep incline across the entire width of the room. 

* * *

“Well, I guess this explains why the Idos room is always so hot,” Anders breathed.

At the top of the ramp, the gang met with what was rapidly becoming a quotidian sight; a massive cavern, cut smoothly from the jet stone.

This one was notable for being almost entirely barren except for a sea of red lyrium crystals.

There were undoubtedly other doorways and tunnels in the cavern, but all that met his eye was vast emptiness veined with ethereal red branches and thick, shimmering clusters of crystal. On Varric’s vehement insistence, the party did an about-face and returned down the ramp - to the opulent bunker beneath the secret dungeon beneath the Magister’s estate. _Nope, nothing weird about that._

Anders, for one, was relieved; there were only so many layers of mystery he could tolerate without garnering a single answer, only so many questions he could hold in mind at any given time. More importantly, he felt a clawing, desperate urge to get as far away from the stuff as possible. Something else was bothering him too, but he couldn’t place it. Something about the vast cavern was disturbing above and beyond the presence of the red lyrium.

There was one unavoidable question that remained. Anders took it upon himself to pose it. “How in the name of Andraste’s barbecued buttcheeks are we supposed to seal up a door like that? Merrill, you said there was a rune, down in the tunnels where you activated the doors – is it the same here?” She nodded, and Anders continued, “Can you, I don’t know, disenchant it somehow?”

Merrill paced a few moments, but eventually shook her head. “I… don’t think so. At least, I don’t know how. There may be someone I could ask, though, but you wouldn’t like it.”

“No. Damnit, no demons,” Hawke cut in. “What about you, Varric? Fancy door mechanisms are dwarven trade secrets, right?”

Varric threw his hands up in the air. “Right, because I’m a dwarf, I obviously know how to disengage a lever mechanism that lowers an enormous trap door in some Ancestor-forsaken tunnels. No, Hawke, no. And if I ask around, the Merchants Guild will be the least of my problems.”

Something clattered to the floor nearby, and Izzy looked up almost sheepishly; she stood next to one of the numerous plinths supporting the statues and vases that decorated the archways of the room. An antique bronze mask stared accusingly up from the floor beside her. “Right, I take it none of you has ever had to get creative with blockading doors before. Take it from me, a chair can be just as valuable as a deadbolt if used properly.”

When she looked up to meet only confused or blank expressions, the pirate captain heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Something about wedges and leverage. I don’t know! Anyone wanna lend a hand with this thing? It’s as stout as our Guard Captain over there – oh, sorry – I mean, it’s big boned.”

Aveline scowled, but Hawke interrupted the brewing fight. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Four or five of those things stacked against the left wall will keep that end up on the ceiling where it belongs.”

Between the seven of them, and with no small amount of trial and error, they managed to locate five plinths that stacked to the height of the ceiling. Using the high end of the ramp, they got the piecemeal column assembled and then shoved it - with great effort and exuberant cursing - to the left side of the room. Merrill raised the platform with the same hand gestures and a drop of blood from her worried lip, and the crew shifted the tower of plinths into place. The ramp had only an inch or two of clearance before jamming on the top of their impromptu column.

That done, the crew seemed to relax a little; it wasn’t long before they had settled in to lounge on plush cushions, thick carpets, and the enormous canopied bed. Varric whipped out a set of cards, and Izzy uncovered a crate filled with dusty green bottles that declared themselves, in bold block letters on the label, to be ‘Mackay’s Epic Single Malt.’ She made a pleasured humming noise that sent most of the crew to shifting uncomfortably before bringing two bottles over to the group. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but this… this is the good stuff. I didn’t know you could get it in the Free Marches – the prices are exorbitant.”

Anders discovered he was quite a fan. The rich amber liquid smelled like nothing he could name, but the fumes alone were heady and divine. It burned all the way down, but he still found himself refusing, perhaps a little too adamantly, when Izzy tried to get him to bet the crate of liquor in a hand of Wicked Grace.

At some point, while Anders was awash in the warm, fuzzy embrace of the single malt, the bronze mask the pirate had knocked over earlier became a part of the game, and each companion took turns wearing it; at some point he was pretty sure the mask was dealt a hand of cards that remained face-down on the table, but he was too blurry to be sure, much less protest. Hawke named it Bruce, and insisted it join her on their next mission.

* * *

Blearily, he managed to climb the steps. He hadn’t won a single hand of cards, though that was hardly noteworthy; he smiled, remembering how incensed Fenris had been when he’d lost a hand to some kids at the clinic after having just taught them the game.

With no immediate plans to further excavate the tunnels, Merrill helped him seal the door from the Idos room to the interminable staircase with a small mountain of rubble. Izzy, thinking more clearly than he was, further added a sleeping trap trigger to the top of the concealed doorway, set to trigger if the door was lowered. It was overkill, as the rocks would surely cause a fatal avalanche for anyone on the stairs if the door was lowered, but Anders was perfectly fine with an abundance of caution.

There were a few good-natured quips about him making up the whole ‘we found a cat’ story, but even through his haze, he was beginning to grow nervous that Mea was still in hiding _._ He spent a good twenty minutes or more searching every nook and cranny of the mansion, calling her and leaving fish bribes on the stairs.

The crew didn’t wait up, excusing themselves with varying degrees of politeness, until only Izzy and Hawke remained. Hawke had pulled Fenris aside, so Izzy trailed Anders looking for the vaporous felis. He was losing his buzz in the slowly building panic; after scouring the myriad disused rooms of the mansion, he returned to the main hall, intending to recruit the two warriors to the search. Upon entering the main room, his worry gave way to an overwhelming flood of relief when he heard a loud, familiar scream from above.

It took him a while to locate the sound, during which time the scream came again – this time sounding a little plaintive. After the second, anxious noise, Mea fell silent and looked down at him.

“ _Maker_ , little one! How… how did you get up there?”

The felis was sitting atop the head of one of the enormous, bizarre statues that hovered three stories above the main entryway. Casting a look around, he couldn’t even picture how she had gotten there; he’d never been up to the third floor, as the single door leading up there was banded in iron, securely bolted, and cordoned off with a spiked iron chain. But, somehow, Mea must have made it to one of the two balconies, then… what? The statues were a dozen paces away from the end of the balconies. “Seriously,” he muttered under his breath, “how did you get up there?”

Getting her down proved to be a rather disorganized affair involving furniture and crates stacked in a pyramid, a lot of dust, and a lot of cooing and giggled exclamations from Izzy. She was adamant that the felis was enjoying herself, watching the pair of them labor to rescue her; to be fair, even Anders suspected she looked a little smug.

He was just descending the stairs, carrying one of the large trunks from his room, when the felis decided she was bored of the 'damsel in distress' role. She hunkered, butt up in the air, and shimmied a few times before leaping down the nearly ten-foot gap to the top of the pile. Anders watched with his heart in his throat as she barreled down the impromptu pyramid, nearly dropping the heavy trunk in his worry, but the felis slowed her momentum and trotted daintily down the last few steps. She paused at the bottom, sitting atop a crate to lick a paw, then gave Izzy a frank, appraising once-over.

The pirate, for all her bluster, seemed unprepared to counter the captivating charm that was Mea. She cooed and kneeled, holding one hand out. Anders watched as the kitten looked around, then trotted boldly up to the woman and gave her hand a sniff. Almost immediately, something caught her eye, and she scrambled off to frantically bat and chase after what, as far as Anders could tell, was a figment of her imagination.

Faintly, from the staircase, he heard the pirate breathe out, “Oh… she’s lovely.”

* * *

A short time later, after Izzy and Hawke had departed, Anders was rinsing off pieces of cod for the felis’ dinner, and realized he couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. As soon as the warrior stepped in the kitchen, he blurted, “So, what did Hawke want?”

Fenris didn’t meet his eye. “She wanted to know if I would continue to aid her on missions if you were not in attendance.”

“Not in… wait, what? So, what, I’m getting sidelined? Where is this coming from?”

“She is… worried.”

“Worried?”

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. “She does not want to exacerbate the situation with the… with Vengeance or Justice or whatever it is now. And there was that incident with the relic.”

Anders stared, unable to process the information. “A one-off incident with an ancient Tevinter relic, and that’s it? I’m out? Oh, and even better, she still wants you on the team… and you’re alright with that?”

“It is not that I… you know I owe Hawke a great deal. You also know I have no say in who she requests aid from. I thought, with Nemea around, you mind not mind having more free time.”

“Might not mind? So, you agreed.”

“No, I did not. I said I would think about it.”

“But you want to.”

“Yes. I thought she would discuss this with you before leaving.”

“But she clearly didn’t.” Anders gritted his teeth against the rising tide of emotion. He looked down, forcing himself to take a deep breath before responding. “This feels just like before the tunnels, when you just decided you ‘didn’t want me involved’ with finding who sent all those assassins. As though I have no say in the matter.”

Fenris had the decency to look embarrassed, at least. “I do not have any more say in what Hawke decides. And I will not apologize for trying to keep you out of danger.”

“What does that even mean? You think I’ll be safer staying here with the Templars and the red lyrium, without Hawke around to keep Meredith in check?” 

For a heartbeat, Fenris looked like he was in a great deal of physical pain, but the expression flickered into cool neutrality so quickly Anders started to question his own senses. “I have no say in her decisions. As to my own, I have explained my preferences as best I can. I feel indebted to Hawke, and I am also concerned for your continued wellbeing.”

Anders looked at the warrior, scrutinized his blank expression. For the first time in many months, he couldn’t read the thoughts behind that mask. It was destabilizing, almost nauseating, how quickly things had seemed to shift.

It felt like they had been climbing a mountain for over a year, and they were right on the verge of some miraculous summit - but then got caught in an avalanche that deposited them halfway down the peak in a matter of minutes.

But, if Anders took pride in anything about himself outside his magic, it was his ability to be rational in a maelstrom. And, outside of battle, this was, perplexingly, one of the most emotionally fraught discussions he had experienced with another person; his old Circle reflexes were much needed, now.

Logically, his feeling of backsliding couldn’t be true; good relationships didn’t crumble in a day. Either their hard-won accord was nowhere near as solid as it had felt the day before, or this was not the catastrophic event that it felt like in the moment. Or, possibly, some of both.

No. From a rational perspective, it must be some of both. Fenris wasn’t trying to hurt him; quite the opposite, actually. But there was something the warrior was keeping from him, too - there must be. This was not the same man that had made chicken noises at him the day before, who had braved the tunnels and faced his greatest fears to try and reach Anders when he was subsumed by Vengeance. That man wouldn’t be as cold and unreadable as Fenris was now. _What changed?_

Anders let out a long sigh; he’d hit a wall. There were too many possible answers to that question, and trying to pull an answer out of Fenris when tension was already high, when he was already so closed off, could only drive them further apart. _Lose some battles, survive the war. Isn’t that what the Warden Commander used to say?_

“Alright. Look, I don’t like it, but I have no say in what you do with Hawke. And I appreciate that you want to protect me, misguided though that feeling might be. The truth is, things have been better, lately, with Justice. Vengeance. It’s been nice, working with you. It made me feel like we were accomplishing things, like things might actually get better. I haven’t felt…” _hope, happiness, care…_ “ _useful_ in a long time.” He sighed again, waving a hand toward the stairs. “I’m going to see what has become of Mea. Maybe we can talk about it more later.” 

Fenris’s expression softened immediately. “I could make dinner, if you are hungry.”

“No thanks, I’m good. Just needed this cod for the little lion.”

“I stopped at the market before returning from Hawke’s. There is a wider selection of meat in the root cellar, and the goatherd will be dropping off a bottle of milk three times a week for the next month. We can extend the agreement if she requires liquid supplement beyond that.”

Anders found a smile for the gesture. “Thanks, Fenris. She’ll appreciate some variety, I’m sure.”

“When she is older, she will benefit from trips outdoors to hunt and exercise, and I will train her to use the privy as any civilized animal should. For now, however, I also obtained two crates of sand from the quarry; it will smell less offensive than the barley.”

Anders shook his head, impressed despite his worries. _That’s the Fenris I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, bummersville. If it helps, angst is not really my jam, either. I hope tomorrow's post will prove why this was all necessary :) /tease
> 
> Red lyrium heat is canon, btw! Adoribull will comment on it if partied together near a cluster in Emprise du Lion in DAI.
> 
> Also, on a more serious note - I got an email this week that, well, kinda floored me. Back in chapter 21, I made the offer of cutting out smut for a "pg-13 bromance version" of this story, and it was brought to my attention that this is... not at all what I meant to say. All I meant is that I would repost without the smut - not that these two characters wouldn't be absolutely smitten with each other. Bromance was a really crappy choice of words. I wanted to respond here because it's a good point. 
> 
> To the author of said email, I've been 'out' for about 6 years now, and it's pretty hard to realize that even my own language is subconsciously biased. I don't think that changing loving partners into bros is the appropriate way to make a story PG-13. But, you're right; I chose those words, and words are everything in the context of fanfiction. I'm sorry, and I've gone back to change the language accordingly. 
> 
> Thank you for calling me out. I really do appreciate any opportunity to do better, and I welcome any and all feedback that is constructive in nature (even the hard stuff).


	33. A Long Two Weeks

True to his word, it took less than two weeks for Fenris to train Mea to use the privy, and most of that was spent establishing sufficient trust to touch her without causing her to flinch. As soon as the felis was comfortable with her new guardians, the training process was ludicrously simple; she was quick to understand what was being asked of her, and eager to please.

For Anders, it was a long two weeks.

To an outside observer, nothing had changed, really. Their morning Idos training was complicated by having Mea underfoot, but Fenris declared that it was good practice to be aware of obstacles while maintaining the inward focus required by the routine. There was one minor incident when the kitten very nearly triggered the sleep bomb trigger in her exploration of the rubble, but Fenris noticed and redirected her in time.

As usual, after Idos came breakfast and reading lessons. Fenris would usually work with Mea afterwards, and Anders played with her after that. He had plucked feathers from his old robes to create a wide variety of toys, and it was remarkable to watch the sleek felis streak through the air after the little ball of feathers he tied to a length of rope. She had boundless energy, now that she was starting to fill out with regular feeding.

And he and Fenris still talked, still joked. It was just… friendly. Too friendly.

More than once, he had been just on the verge of bringing it up, but always dragged himself back from the edge. Fenris wasn’t oblivious – far from it – and so he must be feeling the same tension. If he didn’t bring it up, it was because he wasn’t ready, or because he felt this apparent backslide was a reasonable tradeoff and he’d explain _that_ when he was ready.

But that didn’t make it any easier; Anders was slowly going mad, suffocating in a bubble of polite friendliness. And _chastity._ His lizard brain could not be reasoned with, and he felt as strung out as a Templar off lyrium inhabiting the same space as Fenris without leave to act on his newfound addiction.

Worst of all were the two nights when Fenris had suited up in his armor in the evening and wished Anders a good night. The second time, he had paused at the door and turned, then shook his head and walked out.

Anders did what he always did with his frustrated energy: he plunged himself into projects. After some time examining the weave on the preservation spell keeping the Tevinter researcher handbook intact, he was able to create a similar weave of his own.

He also used most of his share of the coin from the tunnels to purchase vials of lyrium, which he imbued with restoration spell wisps, tucked safely into a paralysis runed box, and brought down to the clinic. He took the most indirect route to the clinic he possibly could; Templar interference was almost non-existent now that he was no longer the mainstay of the clinic, and he didn’t want to give the bastards any reason to think otherwise.

He was quite embarrassed when he tried to explain the rune problem to Lirene – how he had been letting Fenris retrieve the wirium vials by flaring his brands – only to have her grab a set of tongs and pull a vial from the box without issue and then fondly berate him for overcomplicating everything. Regardless, it was a victory, albeit a small one; mass casualties would be significantly easier at the clinic with the wirium vials, and such events were disturbingly common in the City of Chains.

He also managed to secure a large and beautifully detailed map of Thedas from the Antiquarian, though it came with several slightly disturbing caveats – “Some of the locations might not yet exist,” and “Don’t be alarmed if it bleeds occasionally”. In a matter of minutes, he was able to identify some of the locations mentioned in Feynriel’s gathered notes, but was discourage to discover that there were no Circle towers anywhere nearby; in fact, the Alamarri tribe seemed equidistant from both the Kinloch and Montsimmard Circles, which would make it unlikely they had further information on the region’s magical mysteries.

He resolutely avoided thinking about the Mourn Watch asshole; he had nearly had a panic attack when he realized why the chamber above the bunker felt so heinous – without the lyrium, it was exactly like the vast, empty stone chambers from his nightmare. Just a passing thought about it made his insides roil, made him feel angry and hopeless and… _No, Maker no, things had been getting better with Justice, with… No, I can’t let that happen again…_

So he wrote letters to Mage Underground sympathizers, and played with Mea, and studiously applied himself to learning Tevene; but, fundamentally, all he did was wait. Wait for Meredith, wait for Hawke, wait for Magisters, wait for Fenris.

…

Nine days after the crew had met at the mansion, Anders went to have a _chat_ with Hawke.

Bodahn greeted him cheerfully and shuffled off to retrieve ‘the mistress’– a title that irritated the Champion as much as it delighted Anders. He greeted Sandal with a wave, and Orana with a grin and a nod. As soon as Bodahn was out of earshot, Orana whirled on him. 

“How is she? Have you named her yet? Is she beautiful? Oh, I bet she’s so beautiful!”

Anders was taken aback – less by the whirlwind of questions, more so because they came from the otherwise shy, reserved former slave. The time spent in Hawke’s employ must have been easing the demure woman out of her shell.

Orana’s face fell at his lack of immediate gushing. “Is she alright? Oh, I am sorry if I am being impertinent, but I never thought I would see another felis, and when Hawke told me about how you found her… just, is she alright?”

Anders held his hands up placatingly. “She’s fine – sorry Orana, you surprised me, that’s all. She’s doing great. Her name is Nemea. You should come by and see her sometime.”

Orana looked down, visibly nervous. “Oh, well… I don’t really leave the house much, and I’m not sure if the mistress would approve – what if she needed me for something and I was gone?”

“We’re just down the road,” Anders said with a grin. “And I really doubt Hawke would mind you coming to pay a visit. But, obviously, there’s no pressure. Just know that you’re welcome any time. She’s still getting used to people being kind to her. It would probably do her good to have some new faces check in on her.” 

“Oh, master Anders, I so appreciate the offer. What a little miracle! My father and I were gifts to Hadriana when she was apprenticed under Magister Danarius, but before that, we served Magister Antonidas. He kept two felis, and I was allowed to clean their pavilion from time to time. I miss them so much. They were the most beautiful part of my life.”

She sighed wistfully, eyes looking off into the distance. “Lamassu was the protective one. And so very clever; she could size you up with just a glance, and she wouldn’t let anyone approach if they didn’t meet her standards. High standards, at that!” She grinned fondly, reminiscing. “Malkia was just a little queen in the making. I know it sounds crazy, but she always knew when someone was watching her - she’d make a big show out of being regal and elegant, stretching and yawning as if she just couldn’t be bothered to hide how magnificent she was. But then, when no one was watching, she’d roll in the dirt and pick fights with Lamassu like a ruffian.”

Anders found himself returning her grin – he could see the potential for both traits in little Nemea. At the same time, it was a little unnerving to be reminded of how prestigious the breed was, and from such a besotted perspective as Orana’s.

He was saved from trying to disentangle the knot of feelings when Bodahn returned. “The mistress is upstairs, and invites you to join her in her room.” Anders thanked him and started up, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. “Master Anders, I should warn you – the mistress has been quite upset by recent events. I beg you to be… gentle with her.”

Anders wasn’t quite sure what to say to that – _what events? –_ and had a hard time trying to picture anyone being ‘gentle’ with Hawke. Regardless, he nodded once more to the worried dwarf and headed up the stairs.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, rehearsing his thoughts, then took a deep breath and pushed open Hawke’s door. He couldn’t have said quite what he expected, but the scene in Hawke’s room was not it.

The fearsome warrior was slouched on the ground in front of her four-poster bed, half-entwined with her usually-boisterous mabari - officially named Baskerville, but affectionately nicknamed Goner. Anders fondly remembered Aveline’s months-long grudge over the inglorious nickname for such a faithful companion - the paragon of Ferelden pets - but the guardswoman had eventually stopped grumbling when it became apparent that Hawke’s affection always came with a serving of bitter irony.

And, at the moment, the two looked about as inglorious as a pair of deep mushrooms going to spore in the dimly lit room.

The incongruous sight took the wind right out of his angry sails. “Uh, hey, Hawke. Looks like I caught you at a bad time…”

Hawke tilted her head and looked up at him, pinning him with that piercing gaze - _the same gaze that she used - to great effect - on the Knight-Commander, the First Enchanter, the Arishok and the Viscount_. Almost immediately after that thought, Anders felt guilty for it. Every time someone made her out to be something greater than just another person, they made her less than a person at the same time.

Resolutely, Anders returned her gaze, and slowly sank down to the floor in front of her. “So. What’s all this then?”

“This,” she drawled, drawing a half-empty bottle of wine from somewhere behind Goner, “is a pity party. Welcome, welcome.” She took a long pull from the bottle, and tipped it toward Anders with a brow raised in invitation.

“I’m alright for now, but we’ll see how this goes,” he said lamely. “So… what’s the occasion for this pity party?” 

“To being alone in a world gone mad,” Hawke said, raising the bottle in a grim pantomime of a cheers.

“Oh, is that all?”

Hawke huffed a weak laugh, and Goner’s stubby tail gave a few halfhearted wags. Anders felt the mission objective slipping away, replaced with worry for his gruff companion and occasional friend. “You know, on second thought, a drink might not be a bad idea.”

Hawke smiled briefly, passing the bottle over. She watched him take a sip, then took the bottle back when he offered. “How do you deal with it?” she asked quietly.

“Deal with what? The crappy wine? Usually with moderation or vomiting, and nothing in between.”

Hawke huffed again, looking down at her hand, which was idly combing through short mabari fur. “No, I mean… being alone. From what you’ve said, that’s kinda your default mode.”

“Well, yeah… but it wasn’t exactly by choice.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Truthfully, that’s a big part of why I hate the Circle. If I’d grown up with my friends and family like you, I don’t think it would be quite so easily to be a loner.” He paused for a moment, then added softly, “I’m sorry we haven’t talked much since, well, since your mom…”

Hawke shrugged with one shoulder, a weak effort to display ambivalence. “Not your job.”

“Well, no, but you helped me out with Karl, and you’re basically the only reason Meredith hasn’t hauled me off for public execution. You’re a good friend, Hawke, and I’m not sure I have been.”

“Yeah, well, I know I can be an irascible bastard sometimes. Trust me, I hear it often enough, it’s finally sunk in.”

Anders looked down, fiddling with the hem of his tunic. “Does this have anything to do with Izzy, by chance?”

Hawke scowled and took another long draught from the bottle. “Well, not that it’s any of your business, but she’s gotten this wild hair that I’m deliberately putting myself in harm’s way to avoid making any long-term plans.”

“Are you?”

“Oh, fuck off, Anders, not you, too. Of course not.”

Anders took a play from Fenris’s book, searching Hawke’s face silently, waiting. It was remarkable how uncomfortable he felt, in that silence, but clearly Hawke did too. “It’s not like that. I didn’t realize ‘commitment’ was even on the negotiating table, not until recently,” she elaborated. “And it’s a damn hard to justify when everyone I grew up with is dead – well, all but Bethy, and she may as well be, for all I see of her.”

She sighed heavily. “Putting myself in harm’s way somehow became the job. I didn’t exactly plan it out like this, you know – no little girl sits at home and thinks, ‘when I grow up, I want an entire city to depend on me to survive’. And it’s not like it’s my choice; the Champion of bloody Kirkwall can hardly sit around eating grapes while the city gets raped and pillaged by Qunari, or the Carta, or fucking Tevinter assholes coming out of every hole in the ground.” 

Anders felt himself nodding. For all he knew their situations were quite different, it was hard not to see a glimmer of himself in her words; his overarching mission to help mages had snowballed into a sense of being solely responsible, but every other aspect of his life seemed to be resistant to planning. _But this isn’t about me. Focus._

He thought for a long moment before offering, “In all the time I’ve known Izzy, she’s told me exactly what she thinks about anything and everything, whether I ask for her opinion or not.”

Hawke snorted, “Yep, that’s my girl.”

“With one notable exception,” Anders continued. “You. Every time I’ve tried to talk to her about you, she deflects, or cracks jokes, or talks in circles. I think this might be one of those rare things when you have to look beyond the words.”

“Maker, Anders – look, I appreciate that you want to help, but I’m tired and day-drunk and I’m really not in the mood for word puzzles right now.”

Anders looked at her a while, then nodded, standing stiffly from the hard floor. “I get it. I just mean… it sounds like she’s more worried that you don’t want to commit to her, and less worried about the reason for it. So, make of that what you will, and think about what you want. I’m around if you need to chat. Or, you know, if you want a mediator that can paralyze you both if it the talks turn bloody.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, but offered him a faint smile. Anders reached down to offer a token pat to her canine body-pillow, and remembered to add, “Oh, and I may have invited Orana over to visit with Mea – that’s the kitten, we named her Nemea. Orana had quite a lot to say about those cats.”

Hawke grinned. “You’re going to be in so much trouble if you’re making the whole cat thing up. I got an earful myself. But, you know… I don’t think I’ve ever seen her leave the estate. It would be good for her to get out.”

Anders nodded, and headed for the door.

“Anders?” Hawke’s call made him pause and turn. “It’s nothing personal, you know. Missions. And I still need a healer. I just know people were freaked out by the whole ‘black hellfire’ incident, and I wanted to give everyone a chance to settle down. And… well, I’m worried about you.”

Anders immediately began to protest, but found his mouth snapping shut when Hawke held up a hand. “No, let me rephrase. I’m worried _for_ you. I don’t think you pose a risk to anyone – I mean, we all owe you our lives several times over. Just… give the crew a few more days to stop jumping at every shadow, and things will go back to normal.”

Frustration, guilt, and betrayal all surged up, vying for control of his response, but Anders took a moment to breathe. _Can’t really blame anyone for being afraid of things they don’t understand. It’s not personal._ He couldn't let his emotions run roughshod over him anymore, not with Vengeance hovering at the fringes of his control. Now was the time to be cool-headed. Logical.

“I’m not sure anything has ever been _normal,_ but I appreciate the thought. Thanks, Hawke.”


	34. Conflagration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: indirect/non-graphic, conceptual discussions of slavery and consent. It's clinical, frank, and may be controversial. I would have separated it for easy skipping, but it is pretty central to the relationship. Feel free to email me for a summary of key plot points if this is a trigger for you. 
> 
> Uh, also smut-adjacent stuff at the end, probably.

Mea was growing like a weed, positively flourishing under the new regimen of ample food, affection, and mental stimulation. The one thing she lacked was an outdoor space for physical exercise. The mansion had a stone-walled courtyard off the library in the east wing, but Anders had seen Mea jump, and wasn’t willing to let her play out there without first netting the entire place off.

Several days after he had spoken with Hawke, Anders was going stir-crazy. The mansion felt more confining by the day, stuffed near to bursting with unspoken things.

He hadn’t quite realized, during the slow progression of his relationship with Fenris, the extent to which the other man had become a refuge for him. Wasn’t fully aware of how easy their companionship had become, how it came to exert such a stabilizing influence on him, or how much he craved the fiery connection. He didn’t fully realize it at the time, but it was so achingly apparent now that they shared the same proximity without the heat.

Perhaps he had always feared that it had been too easy, at least in that subconscious way that doubts tended to simmer in the back of his mind. The miraculous, unexpected ease with which Fenris had just slotted into his life was antithetical to his entire life experience of fighting tooth and nail for what he wanted, and usually failing anyways.

Despite how secure he had felt with the other man, each passing day seemed to invalidate his assumptions; if the thrilling high of Fenris’s affection had waned, things could get worse than a mere regression to the mean. He couldn’t stand to let what he and Fenris shared, this thing he hadn’t even known to wish for, devolve predictably from a deep connection into a superficial one, and eventually to none at all. He’d rather preserve the past year safe in his memories than let it tarnish and spoil and fade because he couldn’t let go.

That particular morning, their Idos practice – usually so calming – presented him with far too much time to think. Breakfast was interminable. Anders decided he and Mea both needed to get outdoors for a while.

Despite his roiling tension, Anders waited until Fenris went upstairs to work with Mea, and then gathered a day’s worth of food and water for himself and the kitten in his backpack. He couldn’t bear to don the beautiful new robe – not without memories of Fenris’s face flushed with equal amounts of embarrassment and pride - so he threw on his old, threadbare robe, now half-plucked to make kitten toys. He holstered his staff and paced by the door to the wine cellar.

And then, finally, Mea sauntered regally out of ‘her’ room, clearly quite pleased with herself after the training session. She obediently trotted towards him when called, and butted her head against his knee when he offered only one treat. _Someone is spoiling you,_ he thought wistfully.

Just as he leaned down to scoop her up, Fenris’s gravelly baritone rang out, “You are going out?”

Anders sighed. He had known there was little chance of sneaking out, but he had been too anxious about this conversation to prepare for it.

“Yeah, I think Mea could use some time outdoors. I was going to take her for a walk on the coast. I left room for her to ride in my pack until we’re away from the city.”

Fenris was down the stairs before he finished talking, his frown deepening by the moment. “I thought we agreed to enclose the courtyard.”

“That’s going to take time, you realize.”

“She is young. There is no rush.”

“It’s not like I was going to take her to Rivain. Just a walk on the coast.”

“And if someone spots her? Or she gets frightened and runs off? What if you get attacked?”

Anders felt his equanimity fading with each question – which, some part of him knew, was petty, because the questions weren’t unreasonable. “No one ever goes out there – well, no one except Hawke and the crew – and besides, she’s a kitten. If anyone sees us, they’ll think I’m just some idiot walking a large tabby. She reliably comes when called, now. And if we get attacked, I’ll kill anyone who looks at her. Happy?”

Fenris crossed his arms. “No.”

“Well, too bad. You don’t have to be happy.”

The warrior’s scowl deepened. “You would put her at risk over this bull-headed notion that she needs to go outside? Can you not at least wait until dusk?”

“How is that any better?”

“Fine. I will go with you.”

“No!” Anders barked, the word erupting from his very core before he even knew it was coming.

Fenris – stoic, implacable Fenris – took a step back at the vehemence of the refusal, his face showing pure shock for the briefest of moments. When he recovered, he didn’t scowl, didn’t rage; his features just settled into that blighted blank mast. 

_“Fine,_ Fenris, okay? You win. She is clearly not a housecat, but you’re right; she’s still very young. I’ll leave her, but I’m still going out for a walk. I’ll stop by the docks on my way back to see about getting netting for the courtyard.” Anders adjusted his pack, paced a few feet to where a very confused Mea had trotted off to watch them, and gave her a reassuring snuggle.

Resolutely, he turned back to the door, and found Fenris directly in front of him, blocking his path.

“It is not safe to go out alone. Not since Kerras.”

Anders laughed mirthlessly. “It’s not safe to stay here and suffocate.” He stepped around the warrior, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“Wait. Just wait. I will ask Isabela to keep an eye on Mea, and I will go with you.”

“Let go of me, Fenris,” Anders breathed. He shrugged out of the warrior’s loose grip, and again made for the door.

Fenris grabbed the back of his robe and tugged him back with an ease that would have been quite humorous under different circumstances. “You are being unreasonable. Something is wrong.”

Anders whirled on him, shoving him back. “Something is wrong? Really? That’s your stunning analysis?”

Fenris was too good of a warrior to be taken off-guard by a shove; he merely shifted his weight to his back foot, his neutral expression intact, but noticeably more strained.

Anders’ traitorous eyes flitted over the warrior’s stunning features; but although the sensory feedback seemed to slice his insides – _swimming in an ocean of dull blades –_ he was perversely unable to stop looking. Strong, angular jaw – clenched; eyes the color of dewy moss on river rocks – turned away and unfocused; elegant, scarred hands – clenching and relaxing alternately.

He’d had ample time to study Fenris’s features, but he still found something new to appreciate every time he looked at them. Now, from this angle, Anders noticed that the warrior had flecks of dark gold hidden among the various shades of green in his irises, the likely cause of that difficult to describe, nearly ineffable mossy-green shade. He only saw it now because of the particular light and the downturned angle - the warrior rarely made eye contact when he was upset or wary.

Anders choked in a breath around the lump in his throat. “I get it, things change. ‘No assurances,’ right? I just… I can’t be here when you’re a million miles away.” 

He didn’t realize he was halfway to the door until he heard his name and turned around, feeling as though the floor were eroding under his feet. He could only watch as Fenris’s hands made fists at his sides, then flattened out again. At last, he spoke. “Please, do not do this.”

Anders felt his chest constricting. "Why? _Talk_ to me, Fenris. Or back off.”

When no response came, he palmed his eyes, then combed his fingers through his hair in agitation, dislodging strands from the loose leather tie. “This all went to hell when we stopped being honest with one another, and I can’t sit around pretending it’s okay. I thought you just needed some time to think and process and find the right words. But it’s looking more and more like you’ve just come to your senses. In which case, I need to get out. Self-preservation.”

Fenris stared at a point above Anders’ shoulder, his posture rigid. But he didn’t say anything.

"I don’t even deserve an explanation, then?" Anders shook his head, suppressing the sudden urge to shove him, to lash out, to make him angry – anything, anything to provoke a reaction. “I don’t get to know why you won’t even look at me?”

“Because I _can’t”_

The fight began to drain out of Anders, leaving a hollow void and bitter words in its place. “Well, you should stop by the clinic then, see if Lirene or Keshen can take a look at your eyes. Maybe you can talk to one of them.”

Fenris lunged at him. His sudden grip on Anders’ arms was astonishingly tight, as was the power with which he was pushed against the wall. But then the warrior just stood there a moment, breathing heavily, seemingly confused at how he got there. He eventually shifted his grip to pin Anders’ shoulders, holding him at arm's length. The mask was long gone; what remained was raw and almost painful to look at.

“I am trying to protect you.” Fenris said in a hoarse whisper.

“From?” 

“From everything! From your demon, and creatures of nightmare, and the Templars, and _me.”_

“Doing a great job.” Anders whispered numbly, twisting his shoulders off the wall in a token struggle.

Fenris’s eyes narrowed to slits; his glare was frighteningly hard and fierce. Anders tipped his head back against the wall just to escape that look, his mind racing. He had only seen Fenris this agitated once before – more than a year ago. Hadriana’s heart had been torn out as a result. _Fitting._

"You don't know what you're asking of me." The words were nearly snarled, contractions be damned. "It’s not that simple."

"I’m asking you to talk to me. Can’t get much simpler."

“Talk,” Fenris growled, incredulous.

“You say that like it’s a synonym for genocide.”

"You don’t – you cannot even begin to comprehend what I want. What I think about when I look at you."

“Oh, I’m sure I can guess… mage, abomination, dangero—”

Fenris stepped closer, startling the words right out of Anders’ mouth as the warrior leaned into him. Green eyes clenched shut, and his breathing became rapid and uneven. “You do not understand the society I was raised in, what it does to one’s preferences to be surrounded by depravity and indulgences. I want to do things to you that you cannot possibly imagine. I want you so badly it frightens me." Fenris’s voice was shattered, low and gravelly, velvet sin.

His eyes opened, meeting Anders’ for a brief moment. Immediately after, he gasped in a breath and the color drained from his face, as if he'd just realized he'd said those words out loud.

With sudden and remarkable clarity, bits and pieces - enigmatic snippets of conversation and mysterious behaviors - began to assemble in Anders’ mind, until cogent thought, realizations, formed from the pieces.

_I would keep you like this, just like this, for hours. Days._

_Helloooo, home of the sex toy._

_You are certain? I do not wish to harm you._

_It is strange. An urge, a need, to see how long I can continue - how far I can go before you stop me. Or until I cannot stop myself._

Fenris was an exceptionally talented kisser. Who was exceptionally talented at removing clothing. And exceptionally unabashed about nudity, and unrepentantly vocal, and lavish with filthy praise.

“O - oh,” he stammered.

 _Oh. Fenris is a LOT more experienced than me._ It should have made him nervous, probably. It didn’t.

Fenris was watching the realizations happen in real-time; Anders could feel the other man’s scrutiny. The warrior was rigid and scowling. _Embarrassed_. _Vulnerable._

Fenris pulled back, still breathing heavily, and clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “There. We have talked, and now you see how close you were to the truth, all those years ago. A wild dog indeed.”

Anders considered his next move only briefly; the warrior was too close, and his words… well, they were having an impact on Anders. He needed some space, or else he was likely to skip the important discussion in favor of more salacious mediations.

He pushed off the wall and put a pace between them. Fenris didn’t fight him, just looked down, furious and embarrassed.

“Fenris…” Anders’ attempt to locate words could only produce the name. His own self-consciousness and anger were long forgotten; he should have realized that the warrior would push him away if he thought it was in Anders’ own best interests. _Foolish warrior._

Fenris shrank back at his name; the sight was poignant and alarming – Fenris wasn’t one to recoil, not from anything. The imagery was reminiscent, not of Anders’ own callous words that Fenris had apparently been harboring for some time now, but those of Izzy, from after that fateful fight with Hadriana. _If you beat a dog, eventually it stops wagging its tail at every visitor._ Anders swelled with protective outrage for the other man.

“Is that all?” he asked quietly.

Fenris didn’t look up, didn’t respond. He looked miserable.

“I don’t want to waste any more time on shitty mindreading. If that’s all you’re worried about, well… let’s come back to that.” He pressed closer. “You never asked what I want.”

“Fine. Tell me what you want.”

Anders swallowed and started talking before he could chicken out. “This. I want you, you idiot. Damnit all - you think you’re too damaged? Too… what, too kinky? Well, guess what - I’ve been afraid of the same things for months now. I think that’s pretty normal. It’s not like I want you to become a different person.”

“Yes, you do,” Fenris cried.

“What? Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because no one could possibly want me to be the person I am! I am _broken._ ”

“Seriously?” Anders asked, bewildered. He felt the warrior’s words like a mace to the chest _,_ but then - _Oh_. More realizations. His eyes widened; he looked up and sighed heavily, unsure which of them was the bigger idiot. "You think there's something wrong with what you're feeling.”

“Of _course_ there is something wrong! I have _always_ been able to control myself. I do not know how to _exist_ as a free man, with all the risks and desires, and so many things beyond my control. And the fear – no, do not make that face. Not _of you_ , I am afraid _for_ you. And for myself if anything should happen to you.”

“Maker, Fenris. None of that is wrong. Maybe you haven't let yourself feel it before, but that’s just normal. I may not have your licentious upbringing - but the rest of it, the possessiveness, the craving, the sheer terror at the idea of loss – yeah. That’s all normal. I’ve been living with it pretty much nonstop for a year or so now.”

Fenris shook his head slowly. “No. Impossible.”

Anders sighed. “Look, if it helps, it fades with time. The infatuation, anyways. Supposedly, if you’re lucky, it mellows into something… better. More sustainable.” He waited for a while, wondering if the warrior would argue, but the other man was clearly lost in thought.

“I do have a question, though…” Anders ventured. “Why now?” Fenris looked up questioningly, and he forced the words out. “I mean, what changed? You didn’t seem, uh, conflicted… before.” 

The voice that responded was broken. “I…” he frowned, then tried again. “I do not know. Nothing. Little things.” 

“Try…?”

Fenris slid down the wall until he was sitting, knees pulled up against his chest. Seconds ticked by in silence.

“When you ask to touch me in return. And down in the tunnels, when I was certain you were… gone. No matter how hard I fought, how many demons I cut down, I could not follow you. And you did not come back. And then the felis.”

Anders tried to sift through the disparate pieces of information for a common theme, but came up empty-handed; it was a cypher to which he didn’t have the code. For all he had come to learn about the warrior, there was an ocean of experiences Anders knew nothing about, and infinite invisible thoughts and meanings applied to the things he _did_ know about.

He pivoted and slid down beside Fenris, arms crossed over one folded knee, the other leg sprawled out in front of him. He was careful to leave a slight gap between them, unsure whether his touch was welcome. Uncertain of what else to say, he took a wild guess. “So, those are all things that made you uncomfortable? I would have stopped if you’d told me… well, demons notwithstanding.”

“No. Yes.” Fenris made a noise of agitation. “Not uncomfortable.” The warrior sighed, crossing his arms across his knees and dropping his head down atop them. “I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy. I thought I could maintain control if I could keep everything separate. I was wrong.”

“What does that mean? Keep everything separate?”

Fenris shook his head against his forearms. “The attraction and the affection. I have never been physical with someone for whom I had positive regard. Respect.”

It wouldn’t have been obvious to an untrained eye, but Fenris had gone almost completely still and stiff. _Tread carefully,_ his mind hissed. “I meant it when I said I respect your privacy. We don’t have to talk about this – we just have to talk about _something_.”

A long silence ensued, broken at last by the soft crepitation of well-worn leather as the warrior straightened. “There is nothing else. And I cannot equivocate on this. If discussion is needed, this is the only one to have.”

“But if it’s uncomfortable for you…”

Fenris’s head craned back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “There are worse things than discomfort.”

Anders closed his eyes. He could hardly argue. “When you say never with someone who… I mean, I had the impression… well, from what you had said before, I thought you must be more experienced than me. Which would explain a lot, actually.”

“I have had a great deal of ‘experience’ with physical relations. I was exposed to many things as a slave. But that is not what I said.”

“I had ‘physical experiences’ with quite a few people I wasn’t head-over-heels for in the Circle, so I’m not really one to talk, I guess. But, I wasn’t… well, I didn’t… it sounds different from your experience in Tevinter.” 

Fenris’s voice, so barren and neutral, was chilling. “It is a land of excesses. There is virtually no vice that is not widely practiced, no conceivable source of pleasure that does not have a following in Tevinter. Sex of any kind is frowned upon only when a person with significant status takes their deviance to awful excess or displays too many of their exploits in the public eye.”

“But if you didn’t have positive regard for your partners… does that mean you were forced against your will? That can’t be… You…”

“No. You are not listening. I was never involved against my will because I _had no will._ ”

“I’m listening. I’m trying to understand.”

The agitated elf sighed heavily. “Until my escape eight years ago, my entire memory was of slavery. Never having freedom is not the same as having and losing it. It is not within the realm of things you can imagine – not because of a failure of creativity, but because you have lived as a free man.”

Fenris swallowed a few times, clearly struggling to find the right words. “Once you put a drop of wine into a glass of clear water, the water will always be colored by it – it cannot be removed. Those who know a life other than slavery cannot conceptualize it, because their freedom colors the image. I know this, because once I gained a drop of freedom, I was no longer able to understand my thoughts and actions as a slave.”

“But there’s a difference, isn’t there? Between slavery and…”

“I recognize that you see the lack of choice as somehow worse when it comes to sex, but that was not my experience of it. Nothing about my body belonged to me. Obviously I feel differently about it now, but at the time, there was no reason to think anything could be different.”

“Were you... content, then? If you didn’t know things could be different…”

“No, of course not.” A long pause. “One can be happy or unhappy in a large variety of contexts. A child born without sight has good days and bad days, but they do not blame the bad ones on their blindness. They do not have any other reference point on which to hang the resentment.” 

Anders felt like he was standing at the edge of the great chasm beneath Kirkwall. Every nerve hummed with fury and outrage for this man, and every instinct told him to flee the conversation or find the nearest target for his rage. But Fenris deserved so much more than his baser instincts.

“So, you’re saying that part wasn’t so bad. Relatively speaking.”

“Not as bad as some of my other duties. Usually.” A short pause. “You disagree.”

“No, Fenris, that’s not… I’m an idiot, but I’m not heartless. I can’t possibly disagree with something you lived through. There’s too much of the world I don’t know about to judge your experience. I just want understand it better.”

Fenris didn’t look over, didn’t sigh or fidget. After a time, he began to speak in a dull monotone, “A slave is stripped and presented at auction. Poked, prodded, examined by would-be masters. They are whipped, beaten, starved. They are sold, crippled, or killed on a whim. They are unable to form attachments of any kind; those foolish few who do are separated, often quickly and terribly. They are unable to defend anything or anyone they care for - they have no power to do so. They are unable to hold opinions, for fear of the repercussions of the slightest hesitance when given an order. A slave – one who has never known any other life – is an object. Do you think that one violation could weigh more heavily on me than another? That anything done to my body could be worse than what I visited upon the Fog Warriors – the first people who gave me safe harbor?”

Anders breathed in a shaky breath. _How could I have been angry at him for pushing me away? How could I feel anything but awe for this man? Maker, how have I failed him so badly?_

He’d never struggled more to hide his own emotions, but he beat them down deep inside; he would not allow Fenris to be put in the position of comforting _him._

It took a long time for him to find words that met the criteria. Cautiously, he ventured, “You’re right. I can’t imagine it. Any of it. But I can see that this whole thing about keeping parts of yourself separate is hurting you. I’m not sure if that’s helpful, even if there’s a very good reason behind it.”

Fenris dropped his head and looked sidelong at Anders – the first time since before he had been pinned to the wall that the warrior had so much as glanced at him. It felt momentous for no reason Anders could pin down. “Perhaps. Though, if there is truth in that, it is a bitter pill to swallow coming from the man who was determined to leave mere minutes ago.”

Fenris must have known how that that would land, how true his aim was, but Anders didn’t see it as an attack. It was just a fact. A horrible, shameful fact.

_Fenris gave his trust, his esteem, to me. I’ve been given something precious to care for, something fragile and untested. I have got to take better care of him._

“You know,” Anders said softly. “I was thinking earlier of how easily we managed to fit together. It made me worry; good things never come easily to me. But I think I was worried about the wrong thing – I should have been paying attention to the places we don’t align so neatly.”

Fenris kept his head down and to the side, looking at Anders from the corner of his eye. Anders wasn’t willing to return the look; it would mean too much had changed if the warrior’s brow wasn’t quirked up in a silent question. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice this sooner. For all that has been easy, we have one potentially disastrous flaw between us. I should have seen it coming.” He swallowed thickly. “When you’re scared, you close up and push people away. When I’m scared, I run. You’re right - that’s what I was doing, and I’m sorry.” 

Fenris inhaled sharply next to him. Anders was expecting an adamant denial of any fear; instead, the warrior stood abruptly. “Yes. _Fasta vass,_ that is true.” He paced a few laps across the main hall, then paused, stooping to absently stroke Mea - who had begun pacing along beside him. “But knowing it does not preclude this from happening again. We need a strategy. A plan.”

Anders felt his lips curl up; it felt like ages since he had wanted to smile, but the sight was priceless; Mea was so eager to please Fenris, and he so openly affectionate with her when his mind was distracted. It was all the more heartening to see the warrior come alive with action and plans and hope.

And, best of all, that one, silly word. _We_ need a strategy. _We_ need a plan.

“What if we just remind each other about this conversation if the other needs it?” Anders suggested tentatively.

“Fear is not amenable to reason. The strategy needs to be visual, and fast, and utterly sacred. Only invoked when necessary, and never ignored.” 

Fenris and Mea resumed pacing across the main hall. _This,_ Anders thought. _This_ _is the magic Fenris brings to the table._ Mere minutes ago, Anders’ internal state was all conflagration and despair. Now, Fenris endeavored to solve one problem - a significant problem, certainly, but not the central one. Still, even the process of hammering out one strategy had profound effects on Anders, as if pulling meridians back into alignment, or situating a cornerstone of a crumbled foundation. Because, at its core, problem-solving was a hopeful act.

It was a buoyant thought, and he wanted more. “We don’t have to overthink it. Just slap me and tell me I’m being a chicken. That ought to do it.”

Fenris snorted, a surprised little laugh. It was a beautiful sound.

* * *

“Have you ever had a massage, Fenris?”

Fenris’s face scrunched in the most confounded expression Anders had ever seen on the other man. “Of course not.” The unspoken ‘slaves do not get massages, fool mage’ was gratuitously implied.

The discussion in the main hall had been draining for both of them – so many damn messy feelings – and so they had retired to the kitchen for a strong cup of tea and light lunch. Mea had decided the show was over, and settled in for a nap in the slats of sunlight the mid-day sun painted across the floor through the arrow-slit windows.

“It might be… I don’t know, a compromise. Something you don’t have any memories associated with, and a way to ease into blending your two versions of reality.” His words were light and casual, but his chest felt tight with worry over what it might mean if the warrior refused. “That is, if you want to… you know, blend things.”

Fenris was clearly irritated. “I am not a child. I do not need to be _eased._ ”

Anders wanted to melt and apologize, to shield Fenris from having to face this – but the warrior would hate that even more. Had basically just said as much. “I know you’re not a child. That’s why I’m still pestering you. It just seems like there might be other solutions besides ‘nothing’ and ‘everything all at once’, and I also think you tend to take the hardest route and suffer in silence when left to your own devices.”

Fenris grunted, glaring into his mug like it might be coerced into answering for him.

Anders took a breath. Having felt so bereft for the past two weeks, he was more inclined to take risks now, when he knew the price of unspoken things. “You asked me what I want,” he ventured softly. Fenris’s grip on his mug tightened immediately. “No, this isn't – I'm not trying to guilt you into something, it’s fine if you don’t want a massage, that’s not what I’m saying. Let me just finish a damn sentence.”

He took another breath. _In for a penny…_ “So. You asked me what I want. I hope you do decide to consolidate those two feelings - and, yeah, I'm biased - because what I want... I want to just assume that I’ll see you every day, because I really like living with you. I want you to have a say in my choices, and I want to be a part of yours, because I think we’re both idiots sometimes. And I want it to just be assumed that anything that involves you also involves me. Because I can’t think of anything you could say or do or want that could be worse than being shut out.”

He couldn’t look up, couldn’t find one more drop of courage than what he had used to say all that out loud.

It felt like at least twenty years passed in stasis as he waited for any kind of response. Anders ground his teeth, unwilling to examine all he might lose if his honesty was unwelcome, and waited.

“Yes.”

He still couldn’t look up. “Yes?” 

“That.”

Anders could hardly breathe. “All of it?”

When he finally forced his eyes to look up, Fenris had leaned back, sitting upright and resolute in his chair. “Yes." He thought for a long moment, then added pensively, "There comes a time when you must stop running. When you turn and face the tiger.” His mouth twisted into a complicated amalgam of whimsy and worry. “So, yes. All that.” After a shorter pause, he added, “And a massage."

"Okay. Now?"

"Upstairs in five minutes.”

With that, the warrior stood and breezed out of the room, leaving Anders to try and convince himself that the words were real.

Which seemed... improbable. Surely, if that whole discussion had just happened, the world would show it somehow? There should be some sort of massive continental shift, something about tectonic plates, probably, or at the very least, there should be a proliferation of forest creatures and a chorus of spirits bursting from the Fade to sing triumphant hymns. Fenris... wanted... a massage. A coded massage, brimming with infinite and precious meanings that no one could ever fully comprehend; so many obstacles and barriers and implications to that massage that Anders himself could only grasp the edges of.

Fenris. Funny, grouchy, playful, dangerous, stunning, stoic, maddening, brave, loyal Fenris. Fenris, who apparently had a raunchy side to him, but didn't have the slightest idea what to make of feeling infatuated. Fenris, who was infuriatingly protective and even more infuriatingly resistant to someone else being protective of him. The same man who had done unspeakably delicious things to him on the stairs of the mansion's main hall, who faced every fear from demons to mages and everything in between - that same man was likely steeling himself to be touched by someone who saw him as a person, who cared about his wants and needs. It was heartbreaking, and it was momentous, and it was easily significant enough for the universe to at least pause and recognize the occasion.

Fuck the universe if this wasn't a situation that deserved a little fanfare.

* * *

When he stepped into the master suite several minutes later, Fenris was watching him from hooded eyes; the warrior was sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, arms braced on his knees. A portrait of self-control. He had apparently rinsed off in the tub, as his hair was weighed down with dampness, and he wore only his close-fitting black leggings. He was tense, but doing a decent job of hiding it behind a visage of cool restraint.

Anders had decided to come prepared in case he was not hallucinating; he carried a small dish of oil, a fire rune woven into the silver to keep the oil slightly above body temperature. He had also decided that the best approach to getting over this obstacle was to go right through it. No dithering, no speeches, no wasted time in which either of them could overthink it. It was just a damn massage. He would stay open-minded and let Fenris be the guide; Anders had already fully inoculated himself with tender feelings and rational thoughts in case the warrior wanted to stop. 

After placing the dish on the nightstand, he circled back around to the foot of the bed and crouched before Fenris. The warrior met his eyes. _Good sign_. “This should feel good. If anything doesn’t, tell me,” he murmured, searching the warrior's face briefly.

Fenris swallowed, but nodded. Anders was charmed by the silent response; he was unaccustomed to any display of shyness from that blunt, wisecracking mouth. “Your only job is to breathe. I’m quite good at this.” He stood, stepped forward, and lightly placed his hands on the other man’s chest. Fenris pliantly tipped back onto the bed when he pushed, and Anders instructed him to roll over onto his front before crawling up after him.

In the bright light streaming in from the windows, Fenris was somehow even more stunning than in the flattering hues of dusk and flickering firelight. His whole body was rigid, sinewy muscle, hard from training as much as stress. The warrior’s fists were clenched lightly at his side, head turned to the left.

Anders had to force himself to look away. He leaned forward, stretching to the left to tug the nightstand closer and bring the dish of warmed oil within reach.

 _No pressure, but this better be the best massage you ever give, you enraptured, besotted, hare-brained mammet,_ his mind whispered helpfully.

It was surprisingly easy to dismiss the subversive thought and focus on his hands as he began working long, gentle strokes up the warrior’s back, spreading the oil and feeling his way through the knotted nightmare that was Fenris’s musculature. As soon as he was in contact with that bronze, silky, scarred skin, his mind seemed perfectly content to reside in the moment, in the sensory feedback. Which was only fitting; the present moment was infinitely better than any thoughts he could get lost in.

Time slipped by in meaningless quantities as he slowly shifted through long, gentle strokes to more firm, kneading pressure, and then to small, isolated knots. To his surprise and delight, Fenris responded with deep, guttural hums, his eyes closing as Anders’ hands stroked and pressed in ways that only those knowledgeable of anatomy could. Low groans and sharp inhales spilled from his throat as painful knots spiked and ebbed; Anders’ wildest fantasies could not have created a more arousing sound than Fenris’s voice moaning at his touch.

The sounds made him breathless, made his arousal jerk uncomfortably in the confines of his britches. He was a damn professional, so he continued to work his way across the elf’s incomparable back and up his shoulders, leaving no patch of skin untended, memorizing the scene before him. It was a monumental moment in his life - he knew this without knowing how - and he wanted to be able to look back and savor the exact temperature of Fenris's skin, the precise viscosity of the oil, every pebbled scar and every bunch of sinew. And yet, in the little reptilian part of his brain, below all the higher-order processing that was required to truly appreciate all of the Fenris laid out before him, the noises were registering. And slowly driving him crazy.

He had been indulging in the sensory feast for quite some time, some part of him realized. He was just finishing a nuanced rub of the warrior’s hands when Fenris’s fingers lightly closed against his. Languidly, eyes still closed, he murmured, “Do you still wish to… explore?”

Anders immediately nuzzled his nose into the damp locks of silky hair at the base of Fenris’s neck, something he’d wanted to do so many times before. He reveled in the concoction of sensations that assaulted him; everything about Fenris was utterly intoxicating. “Oh... you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to,” he breathed against the long blade of Fenris’s ear. “Or how badly.”

The faint full-body shudder beneath him was all the encouragement he needed.

Presented with such an alluring carte-blanche, Anders decided to set about his exploration in an orderly fashion and start at the top. He nibbled, licked and breathed his way along Fenris’s ear, noting the shiver that he elicited when his tongue delved along the tip of the blade, when his teeth grazed the lobe, and when his breath tickled the skin just behind the ear.

Fenris’s hair was much finer than his own; it was almost dry save for the humidity trapped near his scalp. Anders massaged said scalp with deft fingers, reveling in the low hums and groans he elicited when his fingers kneaded into the knotted muscles where neck met skull.

He carded his fingers up through the alabaster hair, scratching his nails lightly against the skin. He gripped fistfuls and tugged lightly. He threaded individual locks through his fingers just to watch the light play across the silvery sheen. Fenris responded deliciously to all of it; he was so responsive, so vocal – which was a double whammy for Anders, who had a particular interest in both the hair and the voice. Fenris also apparently had a particular fondness for having his hair pulled, judging by the way his spine arced in response.

And, Maker help him, he was a professional – but he was also a man. It was all he could do to roll off onto his side, eyes searching the warrior’s woozy expression. “Is this still okay?”

In response, Fenris rolled over onto his back, his head lolling sideways to face Anders. “Yes. Front now.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Pushy,” he teased, but climbed back atop the warrior’s legs with a telling degree of enthusiasm. When he re-centered himself and sat upright, he was rewarded with the sight of Fenris panting beneath him. Anders wet his lips, afraid he would go mad before he even really began this venture. Leaning forward again, he rested his forehead against Fenris’s, breathing in his breath, as his fingers slowly worked their way up his chest.

Fenris snaked a hand up into his hair, gently pulling down to bring him within reach; Anders conceded, brushing his lips with warm, teasing, whisper-soft kisses. With a show of willpower, he managed to pull back, sucking Fenris’s lower lip as he did so, and then placed an admonishing finger across the warrior’s mouth. 

As he straightened, he realized that sitting astride the warrior’s hips was a dangerous gambit; the suggestive position was like a sustained jolt of electricity running down his spine and directly to his groin.

Holding the other man’s gaze, he lightly traced his fingers alongside Fenris’s bellybutton, leaning forward into his palms to knead up over the warrior’s chest. He was hypnotized by the warmth, the slickness, the contrasting sensation of smooth skin over unyielding, taut muscle.

But Fenris was upping the ante on him; he wasn't just groaning anymore; he was... undulating, somewhat. His abdominal muscles clenched, ever so slightly, with every exhale, as though he required conscious effort to breathe. With every shallow breath, it made his shoulders roll just fractionally off the bed, and caused his hips to rock by just the smallest of increments. It was a steady, nearly imperceptible, relentless motion that lapped away at his control like a drip slowly devouring rock. Adding in the gratuitous noises pouring from the warrior's throat, noises that were as rich as the Mackay's single malt and burned just as fiercely inside him... well. Professional was asking a lot. 

Fenris knew it, too. It seemed to be a conscious campaign he was waging on Anders' self-control. It was obvious every time the warrior's lashes parted to steal a glance at what devastation he was wreaking.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Anders decided that he didn't need to play fair, he just needed to be able to stop if necessary. He leaned forward, breathing into the warrior’s ear, “Have I ever told you how much I love your voice?” His boldness surprised him, but he didn’t stop to think about it. “Izzy calls it liquid sex – so masculine and velvety. And she’s right. It goes straight to my cock whenever you talk, Fenris.”

The warrior responded by gripping his hips and bucking up against him, back arching on the mattress. Anders watched, entranced, as Fenris’s head tilted back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a moan.

“ _Maker,”_ Anders teased, though it was really little more than a groan with some consonants. “You’re making this very hard. I want to worship you, not ravage you.”

Fenris looked up at him, not even pretending to look chagrined. “You are the one making things hard,” he growled, though he did release Anders’ hips with a huff. “I will try to be less… vocal.” After a pause, he added thoughtfully, “Although, there is no reason why you cannot do both.”

Anders grinned. “True. I think I may have been a little too ambitious. Properly exploring you may take weeks…”

“Longer,” Fenris corrected.

“Maybe much longer,” Anders agreed. Carefully, he extricated himself from atop those powerful thighs, and stretched himself alongside the warrior, propping his head up on one arm. He grinned. "So, part one of your first massage. Any regrets?"

"Part one?"

"Oh, yeah - there's at least four more. Your arms didn't get nearly enough attention, and we didn't make it to legs or feet at all. And by the time we start part two, your shoulders and back will be all tensed up again, so... well, it's a process."

Fenris shook his head blearily, though his eyes were keen and bright. "All that just to keep you from absconding with a felis."

Anders laughed easily. "Yeah, yeah, what a terrible burden. Your self-sacrifice is noted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In no way is this chapter an attempt to compare or minimize the experience of sexual abuse. Fenris’s perspective here reflects experiences drawn from a non-medical fellowship at a refugee trauma center. Every story is unique, and the many ways people experience trauma are complicated and, by nature, defy easy explanation. I included the ample trigger warning, as well as this disclaimer, because I truly don't want to increase someone’s distress or invalidate their lived experience. I included the frank discussion of slavery because the word has been wholly separated from the horror it implies, and I don’t see how Fenris can be appreciated as a character if that entire experience is marginalized to a trope.
> 
> Serious business aside, I am sorry for the slow post. I had all these thoughts about how to reach this discussion, so I thought it would be an easy one to write. It turns out, I hate writing these boys fighting. So, I guess the upshot is, there probably won’t be any more big confrontations!
> 
> Oh, last thing - I keep meaning to add this to the notes somewhere, but I went back and edited Fenris's chapter (#24) a while ago, mostly by tightening the rambley bits, but also adding flashbacks from his perspective. I was reminded now because there is some added context there that is relevant to this chapter.


End file.
